


The Beating Heart in the Dead Man’s Chest

by CelestialVoid



Series: Sailing On Dark Waters [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Pirates, Alternate Universe - Pirates of the Caribbean, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Because I Need Him to Have a Manbun, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Hale Has a Manbun, Gen, Horror, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other additional characters to be added, Pirate Allison, Pirate Derek, Pirate Isaac, Pirate Lydia, Pirate Peter, Pirate Scott, Some Humor, Stiles is not a girl, Violence, but it's a secret surprise so you'll have to wait, cannon genders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-10-19 03:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10631373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: An interrupted wedding in the Port of Beacon Hills leaves Stiles and Derek in harm’s way and their only escape is to capture Captain Peter Hale, or at least to obtain one of his most treasured possessions, the compass.But Lord Gerard Argent’s intentions are not as moral or clear as they seem and what he wants lies in the Dead Man’s Chest.





	1. I

The large palm trees that lined the coast were bent by the turbulent winds that blew through the port. The sky was dark as heavy clouds passed over the bay, the heavens pouring over the land. The animals and livestock were huddled beneath whatever shelter they could find, their fur soaked by the downpour as they nuzzled up to each other. Even the stray dog that wondered about town had found a place to hide in the shadows of the alleys.

The townspeople had closed their shutters and retreated inside.

All except for one man who sat among the falling rain.

He wore a bright white suit, the jacket made of a thick fabric that had a detailed silver vine-like pattern sewn into it. The collar of his jacket, tabs of his shirt collar and the rounded knot of his silk white tie were all bedazzled with heavy silver beads and glistening crystals. He wore a white vest that was fitted to his slender waist and sat nicely atop of the multiple layers of fabric. His suit was soaked through and sullied by the puddles of mud that pooled around him.

Each droplet of rain struck the delicate china cups with a tinkling melody and filled the wine glasses that adorned the tables.

Chairs had been blown over or half-heartedly tossed about in a desperate attempt to run for cover.

One of the parasols that had sat atop a table had been knocked out of place, bouncing across the courtyard and splashing about in the water.

Stiles sat still at the edge of the courtyard, kneeling before the alter that had been set up for the special day. The mud coated his drenched clothes as soft tears rolled down his cheeks, the glistening droplets concealed his broken heart and washed away the tears. His lips quivered slightly as he drew in shaky breaths and broken sobs.

His eyes were focused on the rippling tide that caressed the horizon but his mind had drifted, leaving him staring into oblivion and unperturbed by the harsh weather.

The loud bustle from inside the manor drew Stiles’ attention to the gathering crowd at the main gate.

A troop of soldiers, dressed in vibrant blue military jackets, pushed open the heavy iron gates and stormed the grounds. Their thick leather boots stirred the mud as they marched forward. In the centre of the crowd, a top a gorgeous white horse was the leader of the troop, a man known for his intimidation, conquering of lands and immoral way of running his army: Lord Gerard Argent.

Stiles rose to his feet, his eyes drawn to a second crowd of soldiers as they burst through the door of the blacksmith’s shop and rushed inside.

Stiles turned and ran inside, sprinting down the fleets of stairs and out into the streets of Beacon Hills.

The soldiers pulled Derek from the shop, heavy iron shackles fastened around his wrists. His suit was soaked and hanging off his broad shoulders. His face was marred by red splotches that were sure to form dark bruises and his long black hair was a mess: half of his thick locks had broken free of the tie, falling around his face and clinging to his golden flesh.

“Derek!” Stiles cried, running to his side.

Two of the uniformed soldiers grabbed Stiles by his arms and hurled him back.

His feet pedalled in the mud and he collapsed to his knees.

Beside him, Lord Argent dismounted his steed and sauntered forward.

“What’s going on?” Stiles growled, glaring at the man.

Argent didn’t reply. He looked down his nose at the boy and sneered before turning his attention to the approaching figure.

Governor Stilinski raced out of the manor and hurried to his son’s side.

“What is the meaning of this?” the man howled. “Order your men to stand down and release my son and Mister Hale at once.”

The men made no attempt to do as ordered.

“Did you hear me?” Governor Stilinski barked.

“Governor John Stilinski,” Lord Argent greeted with a tone that sounded more condescending than genuine. “I apologise for arriving without invitation.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Stiles.

“Surely this cannot be your son,” Argent continued. “Why, when I last saw him, he barely came up to my knee. My how you have grown, Stiles.”

“Gerard Argent?” Governor Stilinski said, stunned.

“It’s Lord Argent now,” the older man corrected.

“Lord or not, you have no reason nor authority to arrest this man nor my son,” John argued.

“I do, in fact,” Gerard said proudly, holding out his hand as his page passed him a leather bound piece of parchment. Gerard unfolded it and passed it to John to read before continuing, “My appointment to the Royal Commission for Antilles Trade and Protection. The Commission charter, grating myself power over the military, government and civilians, and the arrest for one ‘Derek Hale’.”

John frowned at the papers.

“This arrest warrant is for Stiles Stilinski,” he mused.

“Is it?” Gerard asked coyly. “My mistake.” He glanced over his shoulder and nodded towards the boy. “Arrest him.”

The men holding Stiles hurled him to his feet as another two stepped forward and fastened the shackles around his narrow wrists.

Derek thrashed in the grip of the men who held him back while Stiles glared and sneered at the men who approached him.

“On what charges?” Stiles shouted, trying to stay calm.

Argent ignored him as his page passed him a second leather bound piece of parchment. “Ah, here is the warrant for Derek Hale. And I also have another for a Henry Tate. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“What are the charges?” Stiles howled.

“Commodore Tate resigned several months ago. He and his daughter left the port days after and we haven’t seen him since,” Governor Stilinski explained.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, biting into his lip. He lifted one foot and stomped it down on the book of one of the soldiers holding him before quickly following through with an elbow to the gut. The soldier collapsed to the ground, moaning and wheezing as he rolled about in the mud. Stiles spun around and swung his arms, slamming the thick iron cuffs of the shackles into the jaw of the second soldier, leaving him in a similar state as his comrade.

Stiles turned to face Lord Argent, his cold glare focused on the man as he stood proud. His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths and no other soldiers dared to approach him.

He drew in a deep breath and, in a low voice, boldly said, “We are British subjects under the jurisdiction of the King’s Governor of the port of Beacon Hills, and we demand to know the charges that are being laid against us.”

Out the corner of his eye, Stiles could see Derek trying to hide his smirk as he looked at the boy with pride and admiration.

Lord Argent turned to face the boy and replied, “You are charged with aiding and embedding a wanted fugitive, piracy, theft of military property, and conspiring to secure the unlawful release of a convict charged with crimes against the Crown and Empire and for which crimes he was condemned to death. For which, regrettably, the punishment is also death. Do you remember him? A pirate by the name of Peter Hale.”

“Captain,” Stiles corrected. “ _Captain_ Peter Hale.”

Lord argent smirked. “I thought you would remember him.”

“And for what it’s worth, he’s ten times the man you are; while you and the military were cowering behind your laws, Captain Peter Hale risked life and limb to save me from the pirates that had kidnapped me,” Stiles pointed out.

“One good deed does not redeem a man of a life time of crimes,” Lord Argent said firmly.

“Is that what you’re going to tell Chris and Kate - _your kids_ \- when you see them in Hell?” Stiles asked, raising his brow quizzically.

He could tell it hit a nerve. Argent’s face twitched as his composure fractured and rage brewed behind his pale eyes.

“Your son tried to kill me,” Stiles hissed.

Lord Argent stepped forward and lowered his voice so only Stiles could hear him as he whispered, “He should have tried harder.”

Argent leant back and nodded to two guards. They seized Stiles and dragged him towards the barracks with Derek in tow.

“Stiles,” his father called after him, but it was too late, the two young men were gone.

 

 

The man sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. He leant back, hoisting his boots onto the thick oat table. He tugged at his sleeve, covering the pale pink scar in the shape of a ‘P’ on his wrist and reaching for the large map sprawled across his desk.

He mumbled a quiet tune under his breath as he turned the map about, comparing it to the wavering point of his compass.

 

_Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,_

_Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum._

His eyes darted back and forth as he eyed them sceptically.

 

_Drink and the devil had done for the rest,_

_Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum._

 

He reached for the nearby bottle of rum on his desk. He pulled the cork free of the nose of the bottle with a loud pop and brought it to his lips.

A single drop ran down the inside of the barrel and fell against his lips.

He pouted and pulled the bottle back, glaring at it as if it had betrayed him.

He sighed, sat upright and rose to his feet. He made his way across his office to the large cabinet in the corner of the room. He unlocked the doors and pulled out a bottle. He uncorked it and brought it to his lips.

There was barely a mouthful of rum left in the bottom of the bottle.

He swallowed it and pulled the bottle back, glaring at it. He growled, pursing his lips and muttering obscenities under his breath as he tossed the bottle aside and picked up another one.

This one had weight to it.

He uncorked it and lifted it to his lips, coughing and spluttering as he spat out mouthfuls of sand. He tipped the bottle upright, watching – mystified – as golden grains of sand poured from the neck of the bottle and cascaded against the palm of his other hand like sand out of an hour glass.

“Time’s running out, Peter,” a voice called form behind him.

Peter dropped the bottle, the glass shattering across the wooden floorboards as he turned to look at the dishevelled figure.

Her once-golden skin was bleached white and deathly pale, standing before him like a ghost. Various sea critters clung to her skin, bulbous barnacles bursting through the skin of her temples, cheeks and forehead, some full and others looking like holes burrowed into her skin. Small pipis blossomed in clusters along her brow. Below her right eye, a vibrant yellow starfish moulded into her cheekbone. Her clothes hung off her frail limbs like rags, soaking wet and dripping water across the floorboards as she stood by the large bay window of the captain’s quarters.

“You look like Hell,” Peter muttered.

“I’ve been there,” the girl replied.

“Is this a dream?” Peter asked, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously. His eyes fell upon the pile of sand at his feet. “Of course it’s not. If it were, there’s be rum.”

“Bottom shelf, second bottle from the left,” the girl replied, nodding towards the cupboard.

Peter hesitated for a second but picked up the bottle that she had suggested. It was heavy, that was a start. He uncorked it and sniffed at it, smelling the rich burning scent of alcohol. He took a quick swig, tasting it before gulping back mouthfuls.

“You got the _Lunar Eclipse_ back, I see,” the girl continued, stepping forward and wandering about the space.

“Yes,” Peter said proudly. “And I had some help from a common acquaintance of ours: Derek.”

The girl froze, her face falling into a solemn lock as she looked up at him.

“Derek?” she muttered. “He’s alive?”

Peter nodded.

“And he ended up a pirate after all” she said, defeated.

“Given a liberal definition of ‘pirate’, yes: he’s got an unhealthy streak of honestly and a heart bound to another,” Peter muttered.

“Good,” she said boldly. “Maybe he won’t turn out like you.”

Peter turned and staggered back across the cabin and over to the girl’s side. He levelled his cold gaze with her and asked, “Now that we’ve finished with the pleasantries, do you mind telling me to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Deucalion,” the girl muttered.

“Ah,” Peter said as if it explained everything. He turned and marched across his office. He slumped down in his chair again and lifted the bottle to his lips.

“Deucalion sent me as an emissary,” the girl continued.

“No, he sent you as a dog,” Peter corrected with a snarl.

“I chose this life,” the girl argued. “Better this than to be lost to the depths forever.”

“Is there a difference?” Peter asked.

The girl froze and swallowed hard.

“A hundred years under the mast and a peaceful rest,” she mumbled. “I’m not the only one who swore to that agreement.”

She turned her eyes on the man and glared at him.

“You made a deal with him too, Peter. He raised the _Eclipse_ from the depths for you and for thirteen years you’ve been Captain,” she reminded him.

“Technically,” Peter added, shrugging slightly.

“You won’t be able to talk your way out of this one,” the girl warned.

A small crab crept over her shoulder. She picked it up, watching it squirm slightly in her hold before tossing it out the window and into the water. It hit the surface with a quiet plop, quickly followed by the thrashing of predators that tore it apart and devoured it.

The girl returned her cold glare to Peter and continued, “The terms of the deal are the same: one soul bound to the crew and the ship for a lifetime.”

“The _Alpha_ already has a captain, there’s no need for me,” Peter jested, smirking as he took another swig of rum.

“Then it’s Davy Jones’ Locker for you,” the girl countered, her voice low and threatening. “The leviathan will find you and will drag you and the _Eclipse_ down to the depths.”

“Any idea when Deucalion will unleash the beast?” Peter asked.

“I told you, Peter: your time is up.”

Her eyes fell on Peter’s free hand.

He glanced down, watching as a dark blemish bloomed on his skin.

His heart leapt into his throat. He swallowed hard.

“It’s no longer a matter of when it’s coming for you,” the girl continued, her voice growing distant. “It’s a matter of how long until you’re found.”

Peter glanced up.

She was gone.

Peter set down the bottle, looking down at his hand one more time.

It was still there.

The Black Spot.

He leapt to his feet and ran out onto the deck.

“All hands on deck,” he bellowed. “Haul anchor.”

“Peter, what the hell?” Lydia gasped, leaning over the railing of the higher deck.

“Get us out of here,” he ordered, balling his fist around the Black Spot. “As fast as you can.”

“Heading, Captain?” Lydia asked, irritated.

“Land,” Peter replied.

“What port?”

“I didn’t say port,” Peter shouted back. “I said ‘land'. Any land.”

“Man your stations,” Scott ordered before storming over to Peter’s side, following the man’s panicked gaze as he looked out across the undulating water. “For the love of all things merciful, Peter, what’s got you in such a panic?”

“Nothing,” Peter replied, keeping his voice low as he watched the shifting shadows of the night with wide eyes and a racing heart.

Scott eyed him suspiciously.

“It’s a myth,” Peter mumbled under his breath, his lips quivering as his bright eyes scanned the rippling waves. “Only a myth.”


	2. II

Derek was escorted through the military barracks and into the office that was once assigned to Commodore Tate. Behind the large oak desk adorned with maps, documents, and various trinkets stood a man, his arms behind his back as he stood at attention and looked over the harbour with a cold glare.

He turned around when he heard the tinkle of Derek’s shackles.

“Those won’t be necessary,” Lord Argent told the guard.

The soldier nodded and unfastened Derek’s shackled. They nodded politely to Lord Argent and left the room.

Derek rubbed at his chafed wrists and asked, “Do you intend to release Stiles too?”

“That is entirely up to you,” Argent announced.

“Really? Then shall I just go and tell the guards to set him free? Or am I right in assuming that you have something else up your sleeve?” Derek pressed, narrowing his glare on the man.

“His release is entirely _dependent_ on you,” Argent corrected himself. He crossed the office and picked up a metal rod, prodding the embers of the fireplace. He kept the rod among the glowing fire as he continued, “The East India Trading Company has need of your services? We wish for you to act as our agent in a business transaction with our mutual friend: Captain Hale.”

“He’s more of an acquaintance,” Derek argued, sneering at the thought of his uncle. He watched Argent’s movements with suspicion. “How do you know him?”

Argent pulled the rod from the embers, examining the glowing tip as he mused, “We’ve had dealings in the past… We’ve both left our marks on each other.”

He turned and showed Derek the cane, holding the heated end before him so that Derek could see the shape of the metal, melded into the letter ‘P’.

Derek didn’t flinch. He held the man’s gaze as he calmly asked, “What mark did he leave on you?”

Argent swiftly turned away, setting the rod aside to cool before continuing, “By your efforts, Peter Hale was set free, and now – by your efforts – you shall go to him and obtain a certain item in his possession.”

“You expect me to do so with him at the point of a sword?” Derek inquired, his gaze following Argent about the room.

“No. Bargain,” the man corrected. He picked up a leather case and drew out a pile of papers, elaborate in design and signed and sealed by the King of England. “Letters of Marque. You will offer Peter what amounts to a full pardon and Peter will be free, a privateer in the employment of England.”

Argent offered Derek the papers but the young man didn’t take them.

“I doubt Peter will consider employment to be the same as freedom,” Derek told the man.

Argent tossed the papers onto the table and stepped out onto the small balcony, overlooking the bay.

“Peter Hale is part of a dying breed. The world is shrinking, the blank spaces of the map are being filled in and the seas have been conquered. Peter will have to find a place of his own in the New World or perish and be nothing more than a myth that once was,” Gerard mused. He turned and looked at Derek. “Not unlike you. You and Mister Stilinski face the hangman’s noose. Certainly that’s enough motivation for you to convince Peter Hale to accept our offer. And for you to accept to, Derek.”

“If you’re hoping to obtain the _Lunar Eclipse_ , Peter would rather die than see it in the hands of another man,” Derek announced. “Regardless of whether or not he trusts them.”

“We have plenty of ships, the _Lunar Eclipse_ is no interest to me. Besides, the item in question is considerably smaller and far more valuable, something Hale keeps on his person at all times. A compass.” Argent glanced over his shoulder, watching Derek for a reaction, but Derek’s cold composure didn’t alter. He turned and swiftly walked back inside. He stopped by the table and picked up the papers before offering them to Derek once again. “A compass, that’s all. Bring that back or there is no deal. Do we have an accord?”

Derek looked down at the papers. He gently pushed them aside.

“Like I said, Peter won’t take your employment and his freedom is of his own accord,” Derek said firmly. “If you could find a way to grant him freedom and pardon him of all his crimes like you will for Mister Stilinski and I, then I will get you the compass. Do we have a deal?”

Argent thought about it for a moment and nodded. “Deal.”

 

 

Derek rushed downstairs and into the holding cells of the military barracks. He rushed past the guards and down the narrow hallway towards Stiles’ cell.

“Wait,” one of the guards shouted. “You can’t be here.”

“I believe he can,” Governor Stilinski argued, following Derek.

“Sir,” the guard said with a polite bow, letting the Governor pass.

“That will be all,” the man dismissed.

The guard nodded and left.

Governor Stilinski made his way down the hall to where Derek knelt before Stiles’ cell, holding hands through the lattice bars of the cast iron gate and talking quietly to each other.

“Peter’s compass?” Stiles asked, shocked. “What does Gerard Argent want with Peter’s compass?”

“Does it matter?” Derek whispered. “If I can find Peter and convince him to hand over the compass, they’ll drop the charges against us.”

“That settles it then,” Governor Stilinski agreed, looking from Derek to his son. “We must find our own way to secure your freedom.”

“Is that a lack of faith in me or in Peter?” Derek asked pensively.

“The fact that you would risk your life to save Peter Hale’s does not mean he would do the same for you or anyone else,” Governor Stilinski said calmly.

Stiles reached through the bars and gently brushed his fingers along Derek’s cheek. His fingertips caressed the fine whiskers that cast a shadow across his solid jaw.

Derek turned his bright aventurine eyes back to Stiles, meeting his kind gaze.

“I have faith in you,” Stiles whispered. “But be warned, Gerard Argent cannot be trusted.”

Derek bowed his head. “If I hadn’t set Peter free…”

Stiles craned his neck, encouraging Derek to look him in the eye.

“Don’t say that,” the boy said softly. “You made the right choice.”

Derek looked back at Stiles, his eyes filled with guilt as he replied, “I never knew my actions would bear such consequences.”

“You forget, I helped too,” Stiles said firmly. “And so, I bear the consequences also.”

Derek smiled weakly, resting his forehead against the bars.

Stiles did the same, reaching through the bars and lacing his fingers through Derek’s.

“How are you going to find him?” Stiles asked.

“Tortuga,” Derek answered. “I’ll start there and I promise I will not stop searching until I find him. And when I come back, it’ll just be you and I… that is, if you’ll still have me.”

“If it weren’t for these bars, I’d have you already,” Stiles purred.

Governor Stilinski cleared his throat, interrupting the two.

He had come to terms with many things – their love, their engagement and their plans for a secret marriage – but, like all fathers, there are certain things he would prefer stayed private.

Derek smiled, bowing his head to hide the soft pink blush that coloured his cheeks. After a second, Derek looked up again, reaching through the bars to cup Stiles’ cheek in his hand. He gently brushed the ball of his thumb across his soft cheek and whispered, “Keep a weather eye on the horizon. I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

“I know,” Stiles replied, cupping the back of Derek’s hand and pressing a tender kiss to his calloused palm.

Derek nodded and rose to his feet. He took a few steps towards the exit before stopping beside Governor Stilinski. He kept his voice low enough that Stiles wouldn’t hear him as he said, “A back up plan might not be a bad idea. I will keep my end of the bargain but there is nothing saying that Argent will.”

Governor Stilinski nodded. “I understand.”


	3. III

Tortuga, the port that the tide dragged in. It’s the festering port that consummates the filth of the world – thieves, drunkards, scoundrels, pirates, privateers, and prostitutes. At least, that’s how Peter had described it, and he wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t a pleasant place to be, and not a place that Derek would happily return to, but – given what was at risk – he swallowed his pride and stepped ashore. He wove his way through the streets, nibbling dodging the livestock that ran free around their feet: squawking chickens, squealing donkeys, scraggy dogs and shrieking cats.

Drunkards staggered down the streets, starting fights with anyone or anything nearby, including brick walls. Women shrieked with joy as men poured ale over their barely-dressed bodies and buried their faces between their breasts or between their legs.

Derek wove his way through the streets and made his way towards a local tavern, only ever stopping to ask a few people if they had heard of Peter Hale or may know his whereabouts, but they all came back the same: debts, myths, uncertain answers and a couple of raging women who had been cast aside when he left on the next tide.

“He owes me four doubloons,” said one man.

“I heard he was dead,” said another. “Hanged at the gallows.”

“Last I heard, he had run off to Madagascar with a barmaid who was half his age and twice his height,” one woman suggested. “Poor girl doesn’t know what she’s in for.”

“He was tried, found guilty and ready for the hanging,” one officer recited. “But he fought off a hundred soldiers in Beacon Hills and escaped. That’s God’s honest truth, my cousin was there. He saw the whole thing.”

A fisherman, half blind, said, “Singapore, last I heard. Drunk, with a smile on his face and a girl under his arm. As sure as the tide comes in, Hale will be in Singapore.”

Derek spent hours wondering the streets and visiting taverns before finally something viable and worthwhile turned up.

An elderly man, emptying nets full of fish and coruscations into large crates, told him, “I can’t say about Peter Hale, but there’s an island just south of the straights where I trade spices and fish for the most delicious pork you’ve ever tasted. Can’t say I know where Hale is, but there you’ll find a ship… a ship with black sails.”

Derek, desperate to get underway, offered his services to the fisherman in exchange for passage to the island.

The elderly man agreed and they had set sail at dawn, just as soon as the glow of the sun peeked over the horizon. It didn’t take long – just over a day – for them to arrive at the island and, as the man had suggested, beached on the sand and stranded by the low tide sat the ship with black sails: The _Lunar Eclipse_.

“If you want, my brother can row you ashore,” the elderly man offered.

“No, thank you, I’ve troubled you enough,” Derek replied, gently refusing as he stepped closer to the railing.

He grabbed a hold of the nearby ropes and hoisted himself up onto the railing. He steadied himself a second before leaping off the edge and diving into the water with a loud crash.

He swam towards the shore, dragging himself onto the wet sand and walking alongside the ship. The foaming waves crept up the shore and crashed against the barnacle-covered hull.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t just beached, it was abandoned.

“Peter!” he shouted, feeling a chill run down his spine as he trudged up the beach and rounded the side of the ship. “Peter Hale?!”

There was no response.

Derek swallowed hard.

After everything they had been through months ago, Peter wouldn’t abandon the _Eclipse_.

“Scott?!” Derek tried, circling the ship and looking up onto the deck. “Lydia?!”

Nothing.

He flinched as something pricked his throat. His hand trembled slightly as he plucked the dark from the taut muscles of his neck. His vision blurred and he staggered slightly before collapsing into the damp sand.

The waves crashed over him before drawing back into the ocean.

Shifting figures approached him, colours and limbs melting together like some kind of nightmarish amalgamation.

His heavy eyes fell shut as the darkness consumed him and pulled him back into the abyss.

 

 

Derek’s body swayed about unsteadily. Tight binds burnt at his wrist as the rough fibres of rope chafed at his golden skin. He slowly blinked his eyes open, his neck aching from holding his neck at such an awkward angle. He squinted against the glare of the sun, his eyes focused on a pair of legs before him, the skin pained in colourful patterns.

Derek was suddenly alert, his eyes wide as he took in his surroundings. He was in a small village with huts built out of bones and sticks. A large fireplace had been constructed in the centre of the town and before it was built the magnificent monument of a throne, upon which sat a familiar figure.

“Peter,” Derek gasped. “Peter, it’s me, Derek. Tell them to let me go.”

Peter’s cold blue eyes turned to look at the young man, his glare eyeing him suspiciously. He rose to his feet, talking in a flurry of animalistic noises: clicking, chomping and babbling.

He walked over to Derek’s side and pointed at Derek groin turning away and sneering.

The natives of the island roared with laughter, quieting as Peter continued to speak to them.

Derek looked down at Peter’s belt, his eyes falling on the small black box-like object.

“Peter,” he called. “The compass. That’s all I need. Please, Peter, Stiles’ is in danger. We were arrested for helping you. He faces the gallows!”

Peter paused.

He turned and looked back at Derek, frowning in thought.

Beside the man, one of the native warriors made a throat-slitting motion while another licked his lips ravenously.

Derek swallowed hard, turning his eyes back to Peter.

Peter turned to the two men carrying the pole that Derek was tied to and made a swinging motion with his arm.

The natives began to laugh and cheer, chanting something over and over again as they began to carry Derek away.

“Peter, what did you tell them?” Derek asked. “No! Peter!”

Peter doesn’t answer. He took a step closer to Derek as they began to carry him away and whispered two words, “Save me.”

 

 

“Derek?” Lydia mumbled as the native hoisted them up to ground level and shoved Derek into the spherical cage made of bones. “What are you doing here?”

“You shouldn’t have come,” Scott added.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Derek muttered.

The natives taunted the captive, smirking as they shoved the ball off the edge of the cliff.

“Hold on,” Allison instructed as the cage plummeted.

The crew clung to each other as the ball dropped, grabbing onto the bars of their cage for stability and bracing their feet against the bottom. The rope pulled taut, the ball jerking to a halt.

Isaac’s leg slipped through a hole, his head thumping against one of the bars.

Erica and Boyd quickly helped him up to his feet, holding him close.

The ball swung about.

Scott waited for the cage to slow before asking Derek, “What do you mean you had no choice?”

“It’s a long story,” Derek replied. “How do we get out of here?”

“There is no way out,” Isaac replied. “If there were, we would have gotten free already.”

Derek looked around. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

Lydia spoke up. “Put it this way, these cages weren’t built until _after_ we got here… and manual labour makes quite an appetite.”

Derek swallowed hard, pulling his hand away from the bar. His stomach churned with nausea as bile rose into his throat.

“Why would Peter do this to you?” Derek asked. “If he’s the Chief or something –“

“It’s more than that,” Allison interrupted. “The tribal people made Peter their Chief, but he only stays Chief as long as he acts like a Chief, which means he can’t do anything a Chief wouldn’t do.”

“So he’s a captive then?” Derek replied. “As much as we are.”

“Worse,” Allison corrected. “You see, their culture believes that Peter is a god, trapped in a human form.”

Lydia scoffed and Derek couldn’t help but smile in agreement.

Allison continued, “They intend to do him the honour of releasing him from that fleshy prison.”

“They’ll roast him and eat him,” Scott reiterated. “It’s a deeply-held religious belief.”

“The feast starts at sunset,” Allison announced. “Peter’s earth-bound life ends when the drums stop.”

Derek turned and looked towards the horizon. The sky was streaked with vibrant colours: splashes of orange, red and purple.

The echoing boom of drums began to play.

“So what do we do?” Derek asked.

“Peter’s bound to delay it as much as possible,” Scott pointed out. “Make them build a bigger fire and gather certain spices and whatnot.”

“Even so, we need to get out of this thing as soon as possible,” Lydia added. “So, if you don’t have any bright ideas, don’t keep them to yourself.”

“Pendulum motion,” Derek proposed. “If we can move the ball back and forth enough, we might be able to catch the edge of the cliff.”

“Will that work?” Erica asked.

“It’s a better plan than no plan,” Lydia agreed. “So move towards me and then towards Scott, using as much force as you can. On three. One… Two… Three.”

The all rushed to one side of the cage, feeling the ball swing.

“And back, go,” Lydia instructed.

They swung the other way and then back again, feeling the cage move back and forth more and more each time.

The edge of ball came close to the Cliffside. The crew reached out through the holes, their fingers brushing against the edge of the rocky cliff. The rough rubble scratched at their fingers, small rocks peeling away before they could get a grip.

“Again!” Derek ordered. “We’re almost there!”

They swung the ball again. Their cage struck the Cliffside. They grabbed the rocky cliff side.

“Okay,” Scott panted. “Now what?”

“Now, we climb,” Derek instructed. “Put your feet through and start moving. Let’s go.”

 

 

Peter sat back on his throne, tapping his finger against his chapped lips. He watched as the native warriors began to dance about the fire to the solid beat of the drum. His cold eyes were focused on the crackling flames, the right glow entrancing him as the flames danced about.

A few of the natives stepped forward and tossed some wood onto the fire.

Peter rose from his throne and bellowed, “More!”

The natives looked at him.

“It’s not big enough. More,” he demanded, making a motion of a large flame wafting into the air.

The thought for a moment before peaking to the natives in their native languages.

“More!” Peter repeated.

The natives nodded and rushed off to collect more firewood.

Peter turned, glaring at the guards by his side.

They panicked, dropping their spears and hurrying away to collect large logs and more wood.

Peter stepped to the side, watching them work. Step by step, he slunk into the shadows until finally he was out of sight, at which point, he turned and ran into the thick brush.

 

Derek was the first to reach the top of the cliff, his hand slapping the rocks as he dug his nails in and desperately held on. The others grabbed the ledge and hoisted the cage up.

“Alright, genius,” Erica said, struggling to catch her breath. “What next?”

“Stick your legs through the holes and hoist it,” Derek instructed. “It’s be awkward, but just keep moving.”

“Aye,” the others shouted in unison. They began to move downhill.

They hurried through the dense forest, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. They did their best to move over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs, their nimble legs keeping them spry as they sprinted further into the lush greenery and towards the sound of the crashing waves. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at their feet. They tried to keep themselves upright, struggling not to stumble or trip.

Derek let out a surprised gasp as the ground fell from beneath them. The cage fell down the small ledge, thumping against the ground as it began to roll.

There was the gut-wrenching sound of breaking bones as the cage fell apart and the crew were left tumbling down the hill.

They rolled to a stop, groaning in pain as they panted.

A figure came sprinting through the forest, slowing to a halt beside them.

“No,” Derek gasped. “God, please, no.”

“Derek,” a familiar voice called as the approaching figure loomed over him. “This isn’t much of a rescue attempt.”

“I figured I’d rescue the crew first,” Derek replied. “They’re more help than you are.”

Peter thought about it for a second and reached down, offering his hand to his nephew.

Derek took it and let the man help him up to his feet.

They helped the rest of the crew and hurried to the shore. They clambered up the ropes and onto the ship, readying it to sale.

“The tide’s come in,” Isaac pointed out.

“Good,” Scott shouted back. “Let’s put as much distance between us and this island and make for open ocean.”

“Yes to the first and yes to the second but only as long as we keep to the shallows,” Peter answered.

“That seems a bit contradictory,” Lydia argued.

“I have faith in your extraordinary navigational skills, Lydia,” Peter called back. “Now, let’s get going before the natives realise where I am.”

Lydia muttered something under her breath, making her way up to the wheel and ordering, “Get ready to cast off.”


	4. IV

Stiles looked out the small window and across the port of Beacon Hills.

Everything was still and quiet. The sky was full of twinkling stars that formed constellations and told stories, but there was no moon. There was no light, only the darkness that no-one dared to step outside in.

Three was a quiet rattle and Stiles turned to see a figure at the door to his cell. He squinted through the darkness, trying to make out who the figure was.

The man slid a key into the lock and pulled open the iron door.

“Dad?” Stiles whispered.

“Come with me,” Governor Stilinski instructed. “Quickly.”

Stiles rose to his feet and hurried out of the cell, following his father down the hallway.

Governor Stilinski nodded to the guard on his way to the exit and the man nodded back, holding the door open for Stiles and his father.

His father was hypervigilant, keeping his hand settled between his son’s shoulder blades as he guided the boy towards a carriage that waited outside the barracks.

“What’s happening?” Stiles asked, keeping his voice low.

John ushered his son into the carriage as he explained, “Our name still holds sway with the King. He has agreed to give you pardon and I’ve arranged for your passage back to England. The captain is an old friend of mine-”

“No,” Stiles interrupted. “Derek has gone-”

“We cannot count on Derek Hale.”

“He’s a better man than you give him credit for,” Stiles growled.

“I’m not questioning his character, son,” his father replied softly. “Argent has offered only one pardon. One. And it has been promised to Peter Hale. Even if Derek succeeds, and I have no doubt he will try considering what’s at stake… Please, don’t ask me to endure the sight of my son walking to the gallows.”

Governor Stilinski drew a pistol from the inside pocket of his jacket and set it in his son’s hands.

“And what about you?” Stiles asked, his voice a weak rasp.

“I must stay here. There are still men who are loyal to me and Argent is wary of my ties to the Crown. Perhaps I can ensure Derek sees a fair trial when he returns.”

“A trial?” Stiles repeated. “A fair trial for Derek will end in the hanging.”

Governor Stilinski sighed. He knew that was the truth. He looks his son in the eye as he whispered, “Then there is nothing for you here.”

John shut the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. He cracked the reigns and drove on towards the docks. The wheels of the carriage rattled across the gravel before pulling up before the docks.

On the wooden pier, a lone figure stood at attention, his eyes cast across the still waters.

“Stay inside,” Governor Stilinski instructed. He dismounted the carriage and called to the man, “Captain?”

A second figure stepped into view, drawing his blade out of the captain’s gut and leaving his limp body to fall against the wooden boards of the decking.

“Good evening, Governor,” the man greeted, wiping the blade of his knife clean on his handkerchief. He glanced down at the captain’s body and muttered, “Shame, that.”

Governor Stilinski swallowed hard but stood his ground.

The man reached into his pocket and withdrew a letter, the parchment folded, sealed and slightly bloody.

“He was carrying this,” the man mused. “It’s a letter to the King… it’s from you.”

“Stiles,” the Governor gasped, spinning around.

A troop of soldiers encircled the carriage.

The man who had been talking to Governor Stilinski, walked past the man and made his way over to the carriage. He pulled open the door.

It was empty.

He slammed the door shut and turned to the Governor, livid with rage as he bellowed, “Where is he?”

“He has always been a spirited and willful child,” the Governor replied calmly. “You won’t find him.”

The man’s shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths as he glared at John. He turned to two of the nearby shoulders and ordered, “Arrest him.”

 

 

Lord Argent walked into his office, holding the letter in his hands by the nearby oil lamp in order to read the neat scrawls of ink when something caught his attention out the corner of his eyes. He glanced across the desk and noticed that he ornate box which had held the Letters of Marque had been opened and its contents emptied.

“No doubt you’ve discovered that loyalty is no longer the currency of the realm, as your father believes,” Argent called into the shadows.

Stiles stepped out of the darkness, his hands behind his back as he focused his glare on the man. “Then what is?”

“I’m afraid currency is the currency of the realm,” Gerard announced, setting down his letter and stepping around his desk.

“And in what regard do you consider someone’s life?” Stiles asked.

“That depends,” Argent replied.

“In that case, I expect we can reach an understanding,” Stiles said firmly. “I’m here to negotiate.”

Argent took a step forward, his cold eyes unwavering as he glared at the boy. “I’m listening.”

Stiles drew his pistol, directing the barrel at the elderly man’s forehead.

“I’m listening intently,” Lord Argent corrected himself.

“You haven’t raised the alarm,” Stiles pointed out.

“This doesn’t seem like a situation I cannot handle,” Gerard replied with an arrogant smirk.

“Then you underestimate me,” Stiles said threateningly. With the other hand he had behind his back, he revealed the Letters of the Marque and continued, “These letters have been signed by the King of England, but they have been left blank.”

“And they are not valid until they bear my signature and seal,” Lord Argent confirmed.

“I’m aware of that, otherwise I wouldn’t be here,” Stiles said.

“If this is bargaining, what do you have to offer me?” Argent asked.

“Information. You have sent Derek after the compass owned by Peter Hale but it will do you no good.”

“Do explain,” Lord Argent encouraged.

“I have been to the Isle de Muerta. I have seen the treasure of Cortez and there is something you need to know.”

“I have no interest in cursed Aztec gold, Mister Stilinski,” Argent interrupted. “My desired are not so provincial. There is more than one chest of value in these waters. So perhaps you need to enhance your offer.”

There was a quiet click as Stiles cocked the gun, his composure firm.

“Factor into your calculations that you robbed me of my wedding day,” Stiles said coldly.

“Ah yes, so I did. My apologies,” Lord Argent said without a hint of remorse. “And who was to be your bride?”

Stiles didn’t reply. He nodded towards the desk, keeping the gun aimed at Argent’s head as he set the letters down on the oak tabletop and watched the man sign and seal them.

“A marriage interrupted,” Argent mused. “Or, perhaps, it was fate intervening?” The man turned to face Stiles, offering him the letters. “You certainly are going to extreme measures to ensure Peter Hale’s freedom.”

Stiles snatched the letters from the man’s grasp. “This isn’t for Peter.”

“Then for Derek Hale,” Gerard corrected. “But what of you and Peter? Does your freedom mean nothing? And what of me? I still want that compass.”

Stiles waved the papers before the man’s face. “Then you should have factored that into the bargain.”

Stiles slid the papers into his pocket and took a step back towards the door.

“You know, they say there are three things all wise men fear,” Argent mused, turning his gaze to look out the windows and listening to the distant rumbling of thunder. “The sea in a storm, the night with no moon,” He turned and looked at Stiles. “And the anger of a gentle man.”

“Then you would be wise to fear me,” Stiles countered. He redirected the barrel of his gun and fired, shattering the glass of the oil lamp and spilling it across the maps and letters that covered the desk. The flame flickered, igniting the oil.

Argent kept his eyes on Stiles, ignoring the raging inferno that consumed everything behind him.

The man nodded and replied. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stiles turned and left, disappearing into the shadows of the night.


	5. V

The ship swayed slightly as the waves lapped at the hull.

They were finally out of harm’s way and able to relax slightly.

“That’s a nice suit,” Scott complimented as he stepped over to Derek’s side.

“Thank you,” Derek replied, his heart sinking and his voice quieting as he added, “I was to be married the day before last.”

“Oh,” Scott said shocked.

“To Stiles,” Derek assured him. “We were to marry in secret but we were interrupted by a storm that rolled into the bay and then by Argent and his men.”

“Argent?” Lydia repeated form the higher deck.

Behind her, Allison lifted her gaze and listened in on their conversation.

“Lord Gerard Argent,” Derek explained. “He’s a military man who’s taking over the port of Beacon Hills. He’s the one who put Stiles and I in shackles on our wedding day. Speaking of which…”

Derek turned, watching as Peter stared out across the waters, the dark depths immersed in the abyss of the moonless night and rippling like a pool of ink.

Derek crossed the deck and stood by his uncle’s side.

“Peter,” Derek said lowly, making the man spin around and look at his nephew. “Stiles is in danger.”

“Again?” Peter asked, unamused. “Have you considered keeping a more watchful eye on him? Maybe you should just lock him up somewhere.”

“He is locked up, in prison,” Derek growled.

The crew froze, everyone turning around and listening into the conversation.

“He faces the noose for helping you,” Derek explained.

“There comes a time when you must face the consequences of your actions and take responsibility for your mistakes,” Peter mused, turning his eyes back towards the ocean.

Derek reached forward, drawing Peter’s sword from the scabbard. With one swift motion, he pressed the blade to the man’s throat before he could react.

“Your compass or your life, it’s as simple as that, Peter,” Derek threatened. “All I need is the compass. I can trade it in for Stiles’ freedom.”

Peter let out a heavy sigh, turning to look at the young man. “So, you get the compass and you go back to shore and rescue the love of your life… again… then what? Where’s my profit?”

“You can keep your life, for one,” Derek pointed out, keeping the tip of the gleaming sword pressed to Peter’s throat. “And two, I can offer you the Letters of Marque. You will be granted full pardon of all of your prior crimes and you will be a free man.”

“And accepting those things is what you want me to do, am I correct?” Peter asked rhetorically. “Fine, but what will _you_ do for me?”

Derek answered without hesitation, “Anything.”

“Derek,” Scott called from across the deck. “Think this through for a second.”

“I know what I’m risking: my life for Stiles’,” Derek replied. “I don’t care what he does to me. I don’t care if he gets me killed, I will risk anything if it means Stiles walks free.”

Peter flashed a devilish grin. His bright blue eyes dimmed as his smile faded and he turned his attention up to Lydia at the helm.

“Lydia, darling,” he called. “We have a need to go up river.”

Lydia seemed reluctant, muttering obscenities under her breath as she spun the wheel.

“No,” Derek objected. “We have to go back to Beacon Hills immediately.”

“Derek, rest assured, I will give you the compass,” Peter said calmly, pushing aside the sword and stepping up to his nephew’s side. “But first, you must find me this.”

Peter dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of cloth on which was a charcoal drawing.

“A key?” Derek asked, slightly irritated by the mediocre request.

“Not this one per say; this is a drawing of a key,” Peter corrected. “I want the key that has been illustrated. It’s that simple.”

“You want me to find this key, that’s it?” Derek asked, taking the piece of cloth from his uncle and eyeing it sceptically.

“That’s it,” Peter confirmed. “And once I have the key, you can have the compass and rush back to Beacon Hills to save Stiles… again.”

“What’s the catch?” Derek asked.

“Why must you think the worst of me?” Peter countered, pouting slightly.

“Because if it were as simple as retrieving a key, you would be more than capable of doing it yourself,” Derek pointed out. “So what’s the catch?”

“What do you know about Deucalion?” Peter inquired.

Derek frowned. “It’s another name for Davy Jones, isn’t it?”

Peter nodded.

“Other than that, I know nothing,” Derek admitted.

“Good,” Peter replied, patting his nephew’s shoulder as he strutted past they young man and up the small fleet of stairs to the higher deck.

 

 

They weighed the anchor in the shallows and lowered the row boats into the water, climbing aboard and making their way down the river.

Thick trees and mangroves arched their path, the spindly roots reaching out for them like the hands of the damned reaching out of Hell.

The longboats moved upriver, the thick paddles of the oars dipping into the murky water and stirring up the dirt and sludge.

“What has Peter so spooked?” Derek asked Scott in a hushed voice.

“He’s run afoul of none other than Deucalion himself,” Scott explained. “He thinks he’s safe as long as he stays near the shallows and can reach land. He’s scared that if he goes out to open water, he’ll be taken.”

“Taken,” Derek repeated, slightly confused. “By Deucalion?”

“Well, if you believe such things, there’s a beast that does the bidding of Deucalion. A fearsome creature from the depths, with giant tentacles that are powerful enough to suck your face right off, and drag an entire ship down to the crushing depths of darkness before dumping them in the Locker. Imagine, the last thing you ever see on Earth is the beast, the last thing you ever hear is its deafening roar and the last thing you ever smell is the slat of the sea and the reeking odour of a thousand rotting corpses.”

Derek swallowed hard and Scott fell silent.

“That’s coming after Peter?” Derek whispered. He looked at the longboat ahead of theirs and muttered, “I never though Peter would be the type who was afraid of dying.”

“Dying, no,” Scott corrected. “With Deucalion, it’s not about death - - it’s about the punishment. Think of the worst fate you can conjure up for yourself and image it as a drawn out torture that lasts forever… and that’s what awaits Peter in Davy Jones’ Locker.”

Derek felt his heart sink slightly as he watched his uncle.

“He’s not a good man, but he’s not a bad man either,” Scott muttered.

Derek took a second to think, feeling helpless at the thought of someone hunting down the last member of his family. And if Deucalion won, Derek would be alone again.

“This key,” Derek whispered, indicating the piece of fabric in his hands. “It’ll save him?”

Scott kept his voice low as he replied, “That’s the very question Peter wants answered, badly enough that he’s willing to face _her_.”

Overhead, a stream of fireflies twirled around them, lighting their way down the river.

One of the bugs flew away from the group, circling around Derek’s head before flying up into the trees. The longboats pulled up before a thick Cypress tree. The crew made haste to wind the ropes around the jagged roots and fasten the boats in place.

One by one, they climbed up the small ladder made of broken branches and braided ropes.

Derek watched as Peter stepped forward, pushing aside a curtain of beads before stepping into the small cabin.

The rest of the crew followed him inside.

The small shack was full of a hoarded mess of jars – full of pickled ingredients, strange creatures and foreign spices – and the pelts of various animals. The centre of the room sat a large table with several board games and maps, the playing pieces tossed about haphazardly and mixed in with chunks of rocks and precious gems. There were other stools and tables pushed up against the walls, all covered in varying piles of books, parchments, and maps. Among the mess were a couple of scattered plates and cups.

At the far end of the room there was a small fleet of stairs that led into another room. The doorway was covered by a curtain that was draped over a doorway, blocking the view into the other room.

By the doorway sat a young woman dressed in the rags of what used to be an expensive dress. The once-white fabric had been tainted and muddied, stained brown but still showing patches of the original colour: shades of blue and white. The layers of fabric made it look like the crashing waves and white caps of the ocean. The thick fabric dress had been patched up with strips of fabric and decorated by scarves and jewels, making the frail lace of her corset and the billowing skirt seem more glamourous.

As she turned towards her visitors, the shifting light exposing the three jagged lines that marred her ebony flesh. The rippling pink scars ran across her throat, running from her jaw, across her throat and to the exposed collarbone on her other side.

She smiled at the newcomers and rose to her feet.

“Peter Hale,” she greeted. “I always knew the wind was going to blow you back to me one day.”

Her eyes moved past Peter and to Derek.

Derek’s heart skipped a beat as her eyes honed in on the young man.

Braeden began to move forward, eyeing him with curiosity before smiling and saying, “You have a touch of destiny to you too, Derek.”

“You know me?” Derek asked, shocked.

“I’ll save you the time, Braeden,” Peter interrupted. “He already has his heart set on someone, a man he left ashore. The reason we’re here is for answers.”

“Asking for help?” Braeden asked sceptically. “That doesn’t sound like you, Peter.”

“It’s not so much for me as it is for Derek,” Peter explained. “So he can earn a favour from me.”

“That sounds more like you,” Braeden corrected, unimpressed. She turned to look at Derek. “Whatever service you require I can fulfil if the money’s right.”

“I have payment,” Peter announced, dropping a heavy pouch of coins on the table.

“Fair,” Braeden agreed.                                                                                                 

She looked into Derek’s eyes, slowly taking a step forward. She slid up to Derek’s side and snatched the piece of cloth from his hand. She unfurled it and eyed it.

“We’re looking for that key,” Derek explained. “And what it goes to.”

Braeden lifted the cloth up and waved it before Peter’s face as she asked, “The compass I gave you cannot lead you to this?”

“No,” Peter admitted.

Braeden smiled and laughed.

“Peter Hale does not know what he wants,” she teased. “Of do you know, but loathe to claim it as your own?”

Peter avoided her gaze, glancing at Derek for a second before looking away again.

Braeden turned her attention back to Derek and said, “The key belongs to a chest. And it is what lays in the chest that you seek, isn’t it?”

“What’s inside the chest?” Scott asked. “Gold? Jewels? Unclaimed properties of a valuable nature?”

“Nothing bad, I hope,” Lydia added with a sympathetic glance across at Erica and Boyd, who clawed at their flesh to test whether they could feel it.

“You know of Deucalion, correct?” Braeden asked. “The alpha of alphas, the apex of apex predators, death, destroyer of worlds, the demon of the sea, Davy Jones. Well, once he was a man of the sea, a great sailor… until he ran afoul of what vexes all men.” She paused for a moment, glancing at Derek before adding, “… or _most_ men.”

“The sea?” Scott asked.

“Mathematics?” Isaac added.

“The dichotomy of good and evil?” Boyd offered.

“Sexual consent?” Lydia said lowly, glaring at Peter.

“A woman,” Peter corrected.

Braeden nodded. “He fell in love.”

“I thought the tale was that he fell in love with the sea?” Scott inquired.

“Same story, different versions, and all true,” Braeden answered before continuing, “It was a woman, as ever-changing, harsh and untameable as the sea. He loved her and never stopped loving her, but the pain his caused him was too much to live with… but not enough to make him die.”

Derek caught Scott glancing across the room at Allison while Peter nodded solemnly.

“Exactly what did he put in the chest?” Derek asked.

Braeden hesitated for a moment before answering, “His heart.”

“Literally or metaphorically?” Isaac asked, cringing.

“Metaphorically, of course,” Lydia replied. “I mean, he couldn’t literally put his heart in a chest…” Her voice trailed off as she turned to look at Braeden. “Could he?”

“He decided it was not worth feeling what small fleeting joy life brings in order to endure the inevitable, cruel torments… and so, when she was forced to leave him, he carved out his heart, locked it away in the chest, and hid it from the rest of the world.” Braeden glanced down at the drawing in her hands. “He was going to offer the heart to the one he loved, but she was gone. The key, he keeps on him at all time, for who better to guard his heart than himself.”

Derek glared at his uncle and growled, “You knew this.”

“No, I didn’t,” Peter objected. “I didn’t know where the key was. But now we do, so all that is left to do is slip aboard the _Alpha_ , take the key, and then you can sail back to Beacon Hills to save Stiles.”

Derek didn’t reply, he was heaving in deep breaths and contemplating the task ahead of him and weighing it up against his need to save the man he loved.

Peter smirked and made his way towards the door.

“Peter,” Braeden called, halting the man in his steps. “Let me see your hand.”

Peter let out a heavy sigh and spun around, offering her his bandaged hand.

She grabbed a hold of his wrist and began to slowly unwind the dirty rag he had tied around the palm of his hand.

The strip of fabric fell to the dusty floorboards, revealing the Black Spot.

The crew pulled away, shuddering and praying to the heavens above.

Braeden tilted her head slightly, inspecting the Black Spot without fear. She quickly dropped Peter’s hand and spun around, making her way across the cabin and up the small fleet of stairs. She pushed aside the curtain and moved around the room.

From where he stood, Derek could hear her talking to a man, his voice quiet but husky and gruff. There was something familiar about it, but Derek couldn’t place it. As she came back, he caught a glimpse of a pair of shoes: leather boots that were worn, scuffed and battered by the salty sea air. Other than that, Derek would only see a hand, pale and worn as he grasped a firm apple. The bright green flesh had a chunk missing from it, Derek only catching a glimpse of it before the mysterious man lifted it and took another bite out of the crunchy flesh.

Derek took a step forward to peer around the corner, but Braeden returned, pulling shut the curtain and obscuring the view.

“In order to keep his heart beating gin the chest, Deucalion had to make sacrifices, one of which is that he cannot make port and can only step on land once every ten years,” Braeden explained, offering Peter a large jar of sand and dirt. “Land is where you are sae so you will carry land with you.”

“Dirt,” Peter said unamused and sceptical. “This is a jar of dirt.”

“Wow, Peter, you skills of observation are incredible,” Lydia teased from across the room.

Peter shot her a dirty glare before turning back to Braeden and asking, “Is the jar of dirt going to help?”

“If you don’t want it, give it back.”

“No!” Peter yelped, hugging the jar to his chest.

Braeden smirked. “Then it helps.”

“How do we find the _Alpha_?” Derek asked, his voice startling the others.

Braeden stepped forward, collecting crab claws, gems and game pieces off the nearby table. She took Derek’s hand and led him over to the table. She pressed the pieces into his hand and held it over a large map before finally answering, “With a touch of destiny.”

Braeden let go of Derek’s hands.

The pieced fell from Derek’s hold, letting out a thundering boom that went straight through Derek as he looked down at the map.

Braeden pointed towards the crab claw that had fallen atop the negative space in the map – an archipelago – and announced, “That is where you need to go.”


	6. VI

They anchored the _Lunar Eclipse_ just by the shore of the archipelago, hiding in the darkness of night as they looked across the open waters.

Derek’s eyes were drawn towards the waves that pounded the wreckage of a scuttled ship, the main deck slanted and the rear of the ship run around. It looked as if it had been snapped in half and cast ashore like a child would discard a broken toy.

“That’s the _Alpha_?” Derek whispered, stepping up to the front of the ship to join Peter and Scott. “It doesn’t look like much.”

“Neither do you,” Peter argued. “Nor does Stiles. Just… Don’t underestimate her.”

Peter eyes the ship, growing more and more anxious as the flotsam drifted across the undulating waves and swept past them.

“What’s your plan?” Peter asked his nephew.

“I’ll row over and searched the wreckage of the ship until I find your bloody key,” Derek growled.

“And if there are any crewmen?” Peter pressed.

“I’ll fight them,” Derek replied.

Peter looked him up and down. “With what?”

Lydia stepped forward, interrupting them as she passed Derek her sword and answered, “With this.”

“Thank you,” Derek whispered, strapping the sword around his waist. Once finished, he pulled his long hair back into a tie, fastening the long raven-black hair behind his head. The wind blew a few stands free of his tie, the thin locks drifting before his face.

“You know what? I like it. It’s a simple plan, easy to remember, which for you, seems to be a problem,” Peter muttered.

Derek pulled the piece of cloth from his pocket one last time, looking down at the image of the key before pocketing it.

“I’ll get your key and you give me the compass,” Derek confirmed.

Peter nodded. “And if you get caught, just say, ‘Peter Hale sent you to settle his debts’. It might just save your life.”

Derek nodded and climbed over the railing, making his way down the small rungs in the side of the ship and climbing into the longboat.

From on board the _Eclipse_ , he heard Peter instruct everyone to dim the lamps. The crew did as instructed. One by one the lights began to diminish, submerging the ship in darkness.

Derek exhaled heavily, reminding himself why he was doing this: for Stiles.

He rowed towards the scuttled ship, taking one last look back at the _Lunar Eclipse_.

There was one last lamp lit, held by Peter. The dull orange glow lit his face, his eyes full of worry and fear as he looked down at his nephew. He hid his emotions and flashed a charismatic grin before dimming his lamp.

Derek continued to row toward the ruins of the ship. The hull of his small boat struck the wreckage. Derek stopped rowing and did his best to tie the boat off before climbing onto the slanted deck.

The ship was deserted except for the many corpses that were thrown about the deck. The boxes and crates of cargo were tossed about, some shattered into splinters and chunks of wood. Debris was tossed about everywhere.

Large rocks pierced the wooden boards of the hull and the waves violently pounded the ship.

A quiet squeak drew Derek’s attention to a man by the main mast. He was pulling at a circle of rope, making the rusty pulley squeak. But the sail had torn and the wooden planks holding up the mast had failed, leaving the man pulling the rope in an endless circle as he muttered, “Hoist the inner jib. Bring her around. Turn to the wind and get us out of here. Captain’s orders. Hoist the inner jib. Bring her around. Turn to the wind and get us out of here. Captain’s orders.”

“Sailor,” Derek called. “There’s no use. You’ve run aground. Your ship is broken in half.”

The man spun around, his wide eyes full of panic as he stared at Derek. “No… Beneath us… It came from beneath us… With a foul breath… the waves took Jones and Quentin… Hoist the inner jib. Bring her around. Turn to the wind and get us out of here. Captain’s orders!”

The man spun around again and began to pull the rope, the pulley squeaking at his redundant action.

A large wave struck the hull and made the boat shudder.

A body fell from the rigging, striking the deck with a loud, gut-wrenching thump.

Derek leapt back, swallowing hard.

The man moved slightly, his hands thumping against the deck in a weak attempt to get up.

Derek took a cautious step forward.

The shirt on the man’s back was torn open, revealing large suction marks across his skin.

Derek reached for the man’s shoulder, gently rolling him over.

He let out a yelp and leapt back by what he saw.

The man’s face was gone, sucked straight off and leaving only a sheet of skin that was slowly suffocating him.

Scott was right.

A cold chill ran down Derek’s spine.

The sea began to churn.

He grabbed a hold of the railing and hoisted himself up, looking out across the dark sea.

The silhouette of a ship broke through the darkness, its shape broken by the mess of shells, flotsam, coral, seaweed, barnacles and other debris from the sea. Upon closer inspection, the ship was made from wood and bone. The sails were dull but glowing white, like the silver moon or the skin of a bloated dead body.

The _Alpha_.

Derek crouched, hiding behind one of the cannons on the deck.

Nearby, figures appeared from the shadows like chameleons emerging from their camouflage.

They weren’t human, nor were they completely monstrous.

They were led by a large, burly man whose pale flesh was covered in barnacles and coral, forming what looked like plated armour. A cluster of barbs stuck out through the skin of his cheek like a sea urchin.

Behind him was a young woman with olive flesh, her dark hair pulled back by a row of shells and coral that had clustered on her head, forming a crown. Intertwined between the points were barnacles, colourful shells and gems, and strands of seaweed. Molluscs, clams and coral burst through the skin on her hands, forming talons and gauntlets. Her clothes were torn to rags, never repaired, only covered by layers.

Behind them was an army of similar looking people, including a pair of boys who looked like identical twins – to the point where the creatures that grew on their flesh were the same – and a woman with long dark hair and pale flesh that looked as if it had been slashed by a creature with large talons and then twisted and caught up in fishing wire.

Others had deformed to look like the creatures of the sea. One man had a face that had twisted and hardened to form a shell.

The horrific creatures surrounded them.

The brutish man bellowed, “Get on your knees and pray!”

Derek leapt out from his cover and sprinted towards his longboat, but the woman with olive skin and a crown of shells barred his way.

He wheeled back slightly, drawing his sword and readying himself to attack. He swung the blade about, wearing off the girl as he leapt up into the rigging, but the twins grabbed him and hurled him back down onto the deck.

He took the dive and rolled, leaping back up onto his feet and bracing himself for a fight.

The man with the shell for a head charged at Derek.

He spun around and with a slash of his sword, beheaded the creature.

“Kali,” the brutish man called.

The girl with a crown of shells – Kali – rolled her eyes. She grabbed a hold of one of the pulled that had fallen down from the mast. She pulled it back and swung it.

The pulley struck Derek’s face with a heavy thud, knocking him back against the deck.

His sword fell from his hand.

His eyes were heavy as his head rolled to the side, a warm sensation trickling across his face as blood caressed his cheek.

“Hey,” a familiar voice whispered softly.

He blinked his eyes open, looking into the depths of gorgeous chocolate brown eyes that glittered gold in the glow of the morning light.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah, it was just a nightmare,” Derek muttered.

Stiles shuffled closer, curling up against Derek’s chest as he said, “Tell me about it.”

“I had a nightmare of what would have happened to me if you hadn’t found me drifting in the sea all those year ago,” Derek explained. “I would have drowned... I would have died alone... I would have never met you.”

Stiles lifted his head, smiling sweetly as he looked up at Derek. He rolled over and rose up onto his knees, straddling Derek’s waist as he leant forward and brought their lips together in a tender kiss.

As he drew back, Derek whispered, “I can never thank you enough for rescuing me.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Stiles replied, gently caressing Derek’s cheek and running his fingers through the man’s long hair. “Just don’t let me lose you. Because I don’t want to live without you.”

Derek smiled, a gently smile that he hadn’t shown in years, one that he kept reserved for Stiles.

Stiles returned the smile, his dark eyes glittering as he leant forward for another chaste kiss. He pressed his forehead to Derek’s as he whispered, “I promise there isn’t anything one Earth, not in Heaven or Hell, that will ever stop me for finding you.”

Derek felt himself being jerked upwards and thrown forward onto his knees. He swayed slightly, still disorientated.

From among the screeching sound in his hears, he heard the brutish man announce, “Six men still alive, Captain. The rest have passed on.”

Derek glanced out the corner of his eye at the other survivors. The five other men were lined up in a row beside him – four to his left and one on his right – and were all forced down onto their knees with their heads bowed.

The man to his right – the one who had been hoisting the rope – was trembling violently. His hands shaking as he clutched his rosary beads and muttered a prayer.

Heavy boots struck the deck as the Captain crossed towards them.

Derek dared to look up.

The man levelled his eyes with Derek, his eyes focused on their prey despite the cloudy grey irises. His stature spoke volumes for the power he held and his cold glare didn’t waver as he looked directly at Derek. Unlike the rest of the crew, this man was pristine: untouched by the sea not time. He was aged, his face creased with wrinkles and his light brown hair thinning, but he didn’t grow weary or show any signs of life wearing him down.

There was no mistaking who he was.

Deucalion.

Derek bowed his head.

The captain turned his attention to trembling man to Derek’s right. He stepped over to the man and bowed down, bringing his face to the man’s as he glared at him and almost mockingly asked, “Do you fear death?”

The man was too scared to speak.

“The last glimmer of moonlight that dies in the dawning of your final day,” Deucalion mused. “And then - - judgment. All your deeds are laid bare.” The man reached forward, lifting the cross at the end of the man’s rosary beads and tilting his head as if his blind eyes could see it as hi continued, “Your sins punished… I can offer you an escape.”

The man looked up at Deucalion, still trembling but his eyes full of hope.

“Don’t listen to him,” the man at the other end of the line interrupted.

Deucalion turned swiftly, making his way down the line. He stopped before the man and asked, “Do you fear death?”

The man looked him in the eye and boldly replied, “I’ll take my chances.”

Deucalion nodded and stepped back. He turned to his first mate, the brutish man with the plate of armours made of the barnacles and coral that grew through his skin. “Ennis.”

The first mate, Ennis, stepped forward. He grabbed man by the throat, snapping his neck before hurling him into the water.

“You cruel bastard,” one of the survivors shouted.

Deucalion spun, his blind gaze honing in on the man with a threatening glare as he retorted, “Life is cruel. Why should the afterlife be any different?”

Deucalion took a step forward and leant in close.

“Every day, you cling to the pain of life and fear death. I offer you a choice: join my crew and postpone your judgment. One hundred years before the mast,” Deucalion offered. He leant back and looked form one man to the next. “Will you serve?”

“I will serve,” the terrified sailor next to Derek answered.

Deucalion smiled, a maniacal grin. He made his way along the line and looked down at Derek. He eyes him suspiciously as he said, “You are neither dead nor dying. What is your purpose here?”

Derek swallowed hard and muttered, “Peter Hale sent me to settle his debts.”

Deucalion seemed surprised and then offended. He stepped forward and repeated his question, “What is your purpose here?”

Derek lifted his head and looked the man in the eye, speaking up as he repeated, “Peter Hale sent me to settle his debt.”

Deucalion looked enraged, his eyes wide and his jaw tight as he heaved in deep breaths.

He straightened his back and looked out across the water, seething, “Did he now? I am sorely tempted to accept that offer.”

The crew – Ennis, Kali and the others – grinned and chuckled.

Derek felt his gut churn and twist nauseatingly.

 _Oh no_ , he thought. _That’s bad_.

 

 

Peter stood on the deck of the _Lunar Eclipse_ , watching through his spyglass as Deucalion spoke to Derek aboard the scuttled ship.

“This isn’t going well,” Scott muttered. “Maybe we should intervene. Fight them off and get Derek out of there.”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Peter replied. “Not against them… Not against him.”

Deucalion straightened his back, staring across the bay and straight at Peter. He looked livid, his smoky-grey eyes wide and his jaw tight as he heaved in deep breaths.

“Shit,” Peter cursed under his breath.

He lowered the spyglass, screaming and stumbling backwards as Deucalion appeared before him. Peter felt his fear course through his veins as he gasped for breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. His eyes darted about, watching as Ennis, Kali and the twins appeared among the shadows, rounding up and disarming the crew.

“You have a debt to pay,” Deucalion said firmly, his blind gaze focused on Peter.

Peter glanced down at the Black Spot on the palm of his hand.

“You have been captain of the _Lunar Eclipse_ for thirteen years, that was our agreement,” Deucalion reminded him.

“Technically, I was only captain for two years and then my crew mutinied,” Peter countered.

“Then you were a bad captain, but a captain nonetheless,” Deucalion replied, unwavering. “Have you not introduced yourself all this time as _Captain_ Peter Hale?”

Peter swallowed hard, thinking quickly.

“You have my payment,” he said, nodding towards the scuttled ship. “One soul, to serve on your ship. He’s already over there.”

“You bastard,” Lydia cried, charging at Peter.

Scott grabbed her, pulling her back before Deucalion’s crew thought to act.

“You sick bastard!” Lydia wailed. “You’d give up your own family to save your pathetic ass?”

Deucalion ignored her, his face twisted into an expression of disgust, anger and offended.

“You cannot _trade_.” Deucalion growled. “You cannot _substitute_.”

“There is a precedent regarding servitude,” Peter argued. “According to the code of the Brethren-”

“One soul is not the same as another,” Deucalion interrupted, erupting with rage.

“You’re right,” Peter said, trying to keep the man calm as he pointed out, “We’ve established the proposal is sound in principle, now we’re just haggling over the price.”

“And just like last time, I am oddly compelled to listen to you.”

Peter flashed a charismatic smile before continuing, “How many souls do you think my soul is worth?”

Deucalion thought for a moment, tilting his head to the side as he stared into oblivion. A wicked smile contorted his face as he turned back to Peter and answered, “One hundred souls. Three days.”

“You’re a jewel, mate,” Peter replied, agreeing to the terms. “Send back the boy and I’ll get started right now.”

“I’m going to keep the boy,” Deucalion said firmly. “As a show of good faith. That leaves you with ninety-nine more souls to collect.”

“What?” Peter squawked. “Have you met Derek? He’s noble, heroic, and a terrific soprano. He’s worth _at least_ four souls.”

Deucalion didn’t reply, standing firm and unmoved by the man’s words. He squinted at Peter, unamused and prying for something that would make the man’s argument more meaningful.

“And, did I mention he’s in love?” Peter added.

“Love,” Deucalion repeated, unamused. “Do you think that matters to me?”

“He’s due to be married,” Peter continued. “And I know you hate that malarkey.”

Deucalion eyed the man suspiciously. “The one that Derek is about to marry, you wouldn’t have a fancy in them, would you, Peter?”

Peter cringed and quickly replied, “No. Not remotely… but I could be if it helps make the deal?”

“I keep the boy,” Deucalion said firmly. “You owe me ninety-nine souls. Three days.”

He turned swiftly, stepping forward to leave in the shadows before turning back and glaring at Peter.

“I do wonder, Peter… can you live with this? Can you condemn an innocent man, a friend and family no less, to a lifetime of servitude, in your name, while you roam free?”

“I can,” Peter answered.

Deucalion turned to face the man. He reached out his hand and said, “Then it’s a deal.”

Peter extended his hand, shaking the man’s. A cool sensation rolled over the palm of his hand before Deucalion drew his hand back. He watched as the man disappeared into the darkness of the night, his crew following.

Peter glanced down at his hand.

The Black Spot had disappeared, leaving only the calloused skin of the palm of his hand.

Allison stormed forward across the deck, balling her fist and slamming it into Peter’s jaw.

The man fell to the deck with a heavy thud.

Allison glared down at him and hissed, “You had better find one hundred souls and get Derek back or face it like a man and pay your dues, because I will not let you stand by and watch as a good man is condemned.”

She turned and stormed off, taking Lydia’s hand in her own as they made their way below deck.

Scott stepped forward, watching as Peter rubbed at his swollen jaw.

“She’s right,” Scott announced.

Peter stared across the dark waters, watching as they _Alpha_ turned and sailed into a distant storm.

“One hundred souls,” Peter mused, rising to his feet. “Where can I find one hundred souls in three days?”

“Tortuga,” Scott offered.

Peter turned, smiling. “Tortuga it is.”


	7. VII

The door to the tavern constantly swung open, groaning on its weary hinges as men stumbled into the bar and ordered another round of alcoholic beverages.

The bar was full of the sounds of light chatter, sloshing alcohol and thunking of mugs.

Peter was seated in the corner of the room, watching as Scott conducted ‘interviews’ for sailors who wished to come aboard the _Lunar Eclipse_.

So far, the only ones who had expressed any interest were a very old man with shaky hands and cataracts who wanted to see the world ‘while he was still young’, a man whose wife had left him and couldn’t care less if he lived or died, a man with one arm and one leg but good vision, and a man who had a dream of sailing the seas forever.

Peter sank back into the shadows, glancing across the bar to where the rest of the crew sat, talking quietly and drinking. There was no mistaking the solemn air that sat around them, all mourning the loss of Derek.

Lydia looked up, glaring at Peter.

The man quickly looked away, returning his attention to the compass in his hands. He watched as the needle spun around in circles. He closed the lid and shook it before opening it again, but to no avail. He shut the lid of his compass and leant across the space to Scott.

“How are we doing?” Peter asked.

“Counting those four? That gives us four,” Scott replied. “And I’ve written a letter to my father in California, a lawyer and a good one. So nothing had better happen to me and the crew.”

“I make no promises,” Peter teased, flashing a devilish grin.

“You had better be coming up with a new plan, Peter. And one that doesn’t include that compass of yours,” Scott said lowly. “The whole crew knows it hasn’t worked since you were saved from the gallows.”

He sat back in the shadows, his smile fading.

He had to think.

He needed a plan.

Deucalion’s words filled his head.

Could he really condemn a man to a life of servitude? Yes. But Derek wasn’t just any man; Derek was family: the only family he had left.

He sighed and listened to Scott’s next interview.

“What’s your story?” the young man asked.

“My story…” the newcomer mused. “It’s the same story as yours, just one chapter behind… I became obsessed with capturing a notorious pirate. I chased him across the seven seas. I lost all perspective. I was consumed. The pursuit cost me my crew, my commission, my daughter… my life.”

Peter felt a chill run up his spine as he swallowed hard.

Scott craned his neck, looking at the man’s face. “Commodore?”

“Not any more. Weren’t you listening?” Henry Tate snapped. “I nearly had you all off the coast of Madagascar, and again off Singapore, then Italy, and I would have had you on your passage back to Tortuga if not for the hurricane… My crew said to sail around… I should have listened.”

Tate’s eyes drifted off slightly before snapping back to reality.

“So, do I make your crew or not?” he asked.

Before Scott could answer, Tate reached across the table and snatched the young man’s bottle of ale, gulping down the liquor. He slammed the bottle down and leant in close, eyeing the man suspiciously before mumbling, slightly slurred, “You haven’t said where you’re going. Some place nice?”

Scott opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Tate grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it over, sending bottles, mugs and pieces of paper flying.

“Am I worthy to serve under _Captain Peter Hale_?” Tate asked, shouting at the top of his voice and making a scene. In one swift motion, he drew his pistol and aimed it at Peter before finishing, “or should I just kill you now?”

Peter freezes, looking at Tate. He was surprised by the man’s drunken bravado but terrified at the thought of dying before he could save Derek.

Peter smiled and said, “You’re hired.”

Tate returned the smile with a sight shrug. He cocked his gun.

“Sorry, old habits die hard.”

One of the volunteered men – the young soldier – grabbed Tate’s arm and calmly said, “Easy now, soldier, that’s our Captain you’re threatening.”

Tate pulled his arm free of the young man’s hold.

The gun fired.

The young man stumbled backwards, slipping on a puddle of spilt liquor before falling back onto a table.

There was a second of silence as everyone looked at each other, then chaos erupted as the bar became a brawl.

The drunk men were looking to have a good time, raising their fists and fighting whoever was nearby.

Tate drew his sword, standing his ground.

Peter looked at Scott and the rest of his crew and nodded towards the door.

They all nodded and made their way towards the exit. They moved gracefully about the crowd as if dancing through the chaos before finally emerging from the bar unscathed.

Tate swung his sword about, cutting and slashing at his enemies as he was backed up against the pillar, guarding his back.

The pirates backed away, scared.

Tate chuckled, amused and cocky, but his moment of pride died away as he realised that the pirates weren’t afraid of him, but – rather – of the young sword-wielding man who stood beside him.

The young man parried and oncoming attack, slapping the side of his blade against the pirate’s wrist and disarming him before planting his boot in the man’s gut and knocking him back into the crowd. Another man charged forward with a dagger only to end up the same way.

Tate stumbled away from the pillar, admiring the young man’s fighting.

The stranger followed him, fighting back to back and defending him as he staggered and swayed.

“Come on then,” Tate shouted. “You want some? Come and get it!”

The young man rolled his eyes, snatching a half-empty bottle from the hand of a bystander and shattering it over his head.

His body jerked for a moment before collapsing to the ground.

The shards of glass rained around the man.

The bar was silent as everyone looked at the young man.

Stiles smirked and announced, “I just wanted the pleasure of doing that myself.”

The crowd cheered, roaring with applause.

Stiles added, “Now, how about we toss this scoundrel out of here and have a drink?”

The men roared with applause, rushing forward in a stampede and lifting Tate off the floor. They hurled him out the door and onto the streets, laughing as he hit the ground with a sickening sound.

The pirates straightened up the bar and returned to their light chatter and heavy drinks.

Stiles made his way outside and knelt by Tate’s side, looking down on the man with an undying sympathy.

He began to stir, groaning as he slowly blinked his eyes open.

“Mister Stilinski?” Tate muttered.

“Henry Tate, what has the world done to you?” Stiles asked, his voice as soft as a mother’s tone.

“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” Tate admitted.

The man groaned as he rolled onto his side. He pushed his weight up onto his hand and made an attempt to get up. His arms trembled and collapsed beneath him. He hit the ground with a painful thud.

Stiles lifted one of Tate’s arms and draped it around his shoulder, helping the man to his feet.

Tate staggered slightly but Stiles held him upright.

“Where are we going?” Tate asked as they began to make their way through the streets and towards the docks.

“You joined a crew, remember?”

Before Tate could reply, they found themselves standing before the _Lunar Eclipse_.

“Load all the cargo,” Scott shouted. “We sail with the tide.”

Stiles let go of Tate, letting the man lean against one of the pillars on the docks before stepping forward.

“Captain Hale,” he called.

“Have you come to join my crew, lad?” Peter asked without looking.

“I’m here to find the man I love,” Stiles corrected.

Peter froze, stunned. It took him a second before he could muster up the reply, “I’m deeply flattered, son, but my only love is the sea.”

“Pocket your ego,” Stiles scolded. “I’m talking about Derek Hale.”

Peter bolted upright, his eyes wide with fear.

The man turned to look at Scott, passing him the bottle in his hand. He panicked slightly as he ordered, “Hide the rum.”

Peter spun around to face stiles, his charismatic smile lighting up his face as he greeted the boy.

“Stiles,” Peter cooed. His face fell as he looked the boy up and down and asked, “How did you get here? The last I heard, you were locked up in a jail cell in Beacon Hills.”

“I got out,” Stiles replied bluntly.

“How?” Peter pressed, intrigued. “Did you lift the cell door off the hinges with leverage and then flee?”

“No,” Stiles answered.

Peter pouted, slightly disappointed. “Then how?”

“I was simply diplomatic and persuasive,” Stiles explained.

The others frowned in confusion, slightly disappointed that there wasn’t more to the story.

Stiles smirked as he added, “It’s amazing what a cowardly man will agree to when you have him at gun point.”

There was a stunned silence for a moment as all eyes turned to Stiles.

The boy shrugged. “Is it really so shocking?”

Scott smirked and clapped a hand over Stiles’ shoulder.

“But how did you get to Tortuga?” Peter asked.

“I know of a small group of fishermen in Beacon Hills that do business in bays across the world, including Tortuga,” Stiles explained. “I traded my suit in for a change of clothes and passage.”

Stiles brought the conversation back to the topic at hand and said, “Peter, I know Derek set out to find you. Where is he?”

“Kid, I’m truly unhappy that I have to tell you this but… through an unfortunate - - and entirely unforeseeable - - series of circumstantial events that have nothing whatsoever to do with me… Derek was forced into servitude upon the _Alpha_ as part of Deucalion’s crew.”

“Deucalion?” Stiles asked, shocked. “The captain of the _Alpha_ , a ship that ferries those who have died at sea from this world to the next?”

Peter nodded.

Tate scoffed.

“You look terrible,” Peter called to the man. “What are you doing here?”

“You hired me,” Tate snarled. “I can’t help that your standards are lax.”

“You smell funny,” Peter teased.

“Enough,” Stiles shouted, silencing them. “All I want is to find Derek and if I find out that he is dead or that you had anything whatsoever to do with ‘servitude’ upon the _Alpha_ , I will give you hell to a degree that you will be begging Deucalion for you to take him aboard his ship for a hundred years under the mast.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t that smart,” Peter muttered. “You know more than what’s good for you.”

“And soon you’ll wish that Derek hadn’t taught me how to fight,” Stiles hissed.

“Find Derek, that’s it?” Peter asked. “All you want is to find Derek?”

Stiles nodded.

“I would have thought you would want to find a way to save Derek,” Peter proposed.

“And you have a way to do that?” Stiles asked.

“Yes. Well, you see, there’s a chest,” Peter stared.

“Oh my God,” Tate muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t you dare lie to him, Peter,” Lydia called from the ramp, her voice cold and threatening as she glared at the man – a storm raging behind her gorgeous jade irises. She stepped over to Peter’s side and smiled sweetly at Stiles and greeting, “Nice to see you again, darling.”

“You too, Lydia,” Stiles replied.

Lydia’s smile dropped as she began to explain, “The chest that Peter is referring to is said to contain the still-beating heart of Deucalion.”

“And whosoever possesses that chest possesses the leverage needed to command Deucalion to do whatever it is they wish. Including the release of our dear Derek from his grim fate,” Peter finished.

“You don’t actually believe him, do you?” Tate asked.

Stiles spun around. “I have seen pirate gold that cursed men so that flesh turned to bone beneath moonlight, the idea of a man who ferries souls to Heaven or Hell doesn’t seem so bizarre. And even if it is just a myth, I am willing to take that risk for Derek.”

Stiles turned back to Peter.

“How do I find the chest?” he asked.

“With this,” Peter announced, holding out his compass.

“With a compass that doesn’t point north?” Stiles asked, unamused.

“It’s unique,” Peter explained.

“Is that another way of saying ‘it’s broken’?” Tate asked.

Peter ignored him and continued, “True enough it doesn’t point north, but it does point to what you want most in the world.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” Stiles asked, looking down at the compass that Peter placed in his hands.

Peter shook his head. “I’m telling the truth, every last word.”

“And what I want most in the world is to find the chest that holds Deucalion’s heart in order to save Derek,” Stiles reiterated.

Peter nodded. He reached forward, pulled open the lid of the compass and took a few steps back quickly. He waited for the needle to settle before leaning in to look at it, careful not to touch it.

The needle swung about, trembling slightly before falling still.

“Lydia,” Peter called. “We have out heading.”

“Finally,” Lydia sighed. “Scott, get ready to sail.”

Scott nodded. He drew in a deep breath and shouted, “Cast off those lines and weigh anchor!”

Peter makes his way towards the ship, turning around to make sure Stiles is following him. He flashed the young man a devilish grin as he said, “Welcome aboard, Mister Stilinski.”


	8. VIII

The world was engulfed in a blanket of impenetrable grey fog, the thick cloud rolling in as a thundering cloud. The trashing waves crashed against the barnacle-covered hull of the _Alpha_ while the rain lashed at the people on board; the crew and the captives.

Ennis, the large, burly man with a cluster of barbs stuck out through the skin of his cheek like a sea urchin and whose pale flesh was covered in barnacles and coral, forming what looked like plated armour, paraded about the deck, cracking his whip and ordering people about.

Derek was at work beside the other captives, reluctantly mopping the deck and watching as the crew attempted to hoist a cannon from the lower decks and move it to the bow of the ship, when Ennis bellowed, “Secure the tail line of the mainsail tackle, Hale!”

Derek turned his head, his eyes drawn to the length of rope that flapped about in the harsh winds. He dropped his mop and leapt into action. He raced across the wet deck and skidded to a halt before the mainsail, reaching forward for the rope.

“Make it fast and brace the fall!” Ennis ordered. “Snap to it!”

Derek caught the rope and pulled it back when a young girl raced to his side.

“Step aside,” she instructed.

“I’ve got it,” Derek announced. “Mind yourself.”

“No,” the girl gasped. She looked up at him, her eye wide with shock as his name fell past her lips, “Derek.”

Derek turned to look at her, finally taking in the sight of her face. His heart sank into his stomach as he muttered, “Cora?”

The rope pulled taut, burning at Derek’s hand and hurling him forward.

The cannon dropped through the deck, shattering the wood as Derek was hurled across the ship.

The crew fell silent.

Ennis stepped forward, his heavy footsteps thumping against the deck as Derek groaned and pushed himself onto his hands and knees.

“Pull him to his feet,” Ennis ordered.

Two members of the crew, the twins, grabbed Derek’s arms and hurled him to his feet. They tore open his shirt and spun him around, exposing his bare back to the elements and to Ennis.

Derek stumbled about and thrashed about in their hold as Ennis stepped forward and said, “Five lashes will remind you to stay on your feet.”

He raised his hand and readied the cat-of-nine-tails.

“No,” Cora cried, leaping forward and grabbing Ennis’ arm.

The man turned and glared at her, his eyes ignited with a livid rage as he growled, “Impending my duties? You shall share the punishment.”

“I’ll take it all,” Cora said defiantly.

“Will you now?” a voice called from the other end of the ship.

All eyes turned to Deucalion as he made his way down the flight of stairs, his cloudy eyes focused on Cora. He crossed the deck and looked at Derek before turning his attention back to Cora and asking, “And what would prompt such an act of charity?”

“My brother,” Cora rasped, glancing over at Derek. “He’s my brother.”

“What a fortuitous circumstance this is,” Deucalion said with false joy. “You wish to spare your brother from Ennis’ punishment?”

“Yes, sir,” Cora replied, bowing her head respectfully.

Deucalion considered it for a moment before turning to face Ennis. He held out his hand and the first mate handed over the whip. Deucalion turned back to Cora and held the whip before her, nodding towards Derek.

Cora looked up, her eyes wide with fear. Her lips trembled as she frantically looked from her brother to the whip. She shook her head.

“No,” she objected. “I won’t.”

“You wished to save him from Ennis’ punishment, but he is still deserving of punishment,” Deucalion reminded her. “It’s your choice: your brother is deserving of ten lashes be it by your hand or by Kali’s.”

Deucalion raised his brow and tilted his head, awaiting a reply, but Cora didn’t reply.

“Kali,” Deucalion called.

“No,” Cora yelped, snatching the whip out of Deucalion’s hand. “I’ll do it.”

She turned and looked at Derek, steadying her racing heart as she raised the whip high above her head.

The captain’s gaze was steady as his cloudy grey eyes focused on her.

Cora swallowed hard and brought her hand down, the iron buds of the nine tails cracking as they split the air and tore open the golden flesh of Derek’s back.

Her gut lurched at the sound of her brother’s agonising cries as his back arched and he screamed at the skies above.

Deucalion watched on impassively and unamused as Cora cracked the whip over and over again, her brother’s blood spilling across the deck only to be washed away by the falling rain like ink through water.

“Two… Three… Four… Five,” Kali counted almost mockingly, her pearly white teeth flashing as she watched on. “Six… Seven… Eight… Nine…”

Cora raised her hand again, the lashing rain washing away the glistening tears that streaked her cheeks. She brought the whip down, the gut-wrenching crack spitting the air followed by Derek’s heart-breaking cry, weakened by pain as he collapsed in the arms of the twins.

“Ten.”

 

 

Derek half-staggered, half-fell, into the hold, the sound of the twin’s roaring laughter disappearing behind him.

Cora sprinted down the stairs, rushing to her brother’s side and struggling as she tried to lift him to his feet and carry him over to a nearby bench.

Derek stumbled forward, collapsing on the bench and shrugging her off.

“Derek,” she started weakly, looking down at her brother with dark eyes full of pain and guilt.

“I don’t need your help,” Derek growled, wincing as he pulled off his shirt and turned it around.

“I did what I had to,” Cora replied, her voice firm and defensive as she glared at Derek.

“So I’m to understand that what you just did was a show of compassion?” Derek replied.

“Kali would have lashed you so hard she would tear your flesh from your bones with every swing,” Cora explained. “I would have taken those lashes for you.”

Derek glanced up at her, watching how a raging storm brewed behind her youthful features. He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “You’re just like Peter.”

“I’m nothing like Peter!” Cora shouted.

“Really? Because all you’ve done is hide the truth from me and hurt me,” Derek retorted. “I thought you were on land with Laura, safe.”

“Well, I’m not. Laura’s dead,” Cora said bluntly, stunning her brother. “And I thought you were dead too. DO you have any idea how it felt to hear that you were alive?”

Derek dropped his gaze and looked down at his feet as he replied, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“So that’s it?” Cora asked. “You’ve given up?”

“Like you did?” Derek countered.

Cora let out a heavy sigh.

“You tend to forget those who have done you wrong, but you never forget the things you’ve done to others,” she mused. “Those are the things that hang on… I was dying and I was scared; my family were dead or missing and I was alone. I signed up to Deucalion’s crew thinking I could cheat death, but it’s not deprivation you find here; you find oblivion. You lose what you were, bit by bit…” Her voice drifted off for a moment as her fingers traced the bright yellow starfish on her cheek and the cluster of bulbous barnacles and pipis that gathered on her hairline. “It wears away at you until you end up as nothing. Like him.”

Cora nodded towards the carving of an old sailor, almost indistinguishable from the bleached wooden boards that lined the walls of the hull.

“Once you’ve sworn an oath to the _Alpha_ , there’s no leaving it, not until your debt is paid. But by that time, you’re not just on the ship; you’re part of it,” Cora explained. She turned her bright eyes to look at her brother and asked, “What have you done, Derek?”

“I’m captive,” Derek told her. “But I have not sworn an oath.”

Cora nodded slowly, letting out what seemed to be a sigh of relief.

There was a moment of quiet before Cora said, “Then you must get away.”

“Not until I find this,” Derek whispered, pulling out the piece of cloth he had pocketed and showing Cora the key that was painted onto the hessian.

“But you have it right there,” Cora muttered, confused.

“Not the drawing,” Derek clarified. “The key.”

“The key,” a strange voice called as the sailor engraved into the wooden boards pulled himself free of the ship.

Derek jolted, his heart leaping into his throat and his moth dry as he looked at the distorted man.

“The key to the Dead Man’s Chest,” the sailor muttered.

“You know of it?” Derek asked.

“Of what?” the man said, confused.

“Of the key,” Derek prompted.

“The key opens the chest,” the sailor mused. “If you open the chest you can stab the heart. Don’t… Don’t stab the heart. The _Alpha_ needs a beating heart. The _Alpha_ needs a captain. If there is no captain, there is no-one to have the key.”

“The captain has the key?” Derek asked, a spark of hope glimmering in his aventurine eyes.

The sailor froze, his eyes wide with fear. He shook his head frantically and back up towards the wall again.

“Where’s the key?” Derek repeated.

“Hidden,” the sailor answered, his body melding back into the wall.

“Where’s the chest?” Derek asked.

“Hidden.”

The sailor disappeared among the grains of the wall, leaving them with one last warning, “Don’t stab the heart.”

There was a moment of tense silence as they watched the statuesque man, expecting him to move again.

“I’ve never seen a key here,” Cora said after a while. “I can’t help you find what doesn’t exist.”

“I told you, I don’t need your help,” Derek growled, rising to his feet.

Cora bolted upright, glaring at her brother as she growled. “Fine. If you want to die for something that’s fine with me, but do it for something meaningful.”

She turned and stormed off, leaving Derek alone with his thoughts.

His stomach twisted with guilt but his mind jumped to one place, one reason for him to keep fighting: Stiles.


	9. IX

Stiles stood at the bow of the ship, his glittering amber eyes cast out to the horizon and watching as the undulating waves glittered in the glow of the early morning sun.

Quiet footsteps crept up behind him as Allison joined him, leaning forward on the rail and looking at Stiles with concern.

“Are you okay?” Allison asked quietly, her dark eyes glittering in the golden light as she looked at the boy with worry.

Stiles kept his eyes fixed on the glimmering pool of sapphire blue water that surrounded them.

“You know, when you’re drowning you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out,” he said, rambling slightly. “It’s called voluntary apnoea. It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct to not let the water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head is exploding.”

His voice weakened slightly as he continued, “Then, when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore… It’s actually kind of peaceful.”

Allison took a step closer.

“Stiles,” she said softly, craning her neck slightly to look him in the eye. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles replied abruptly, snapping out of his trance and looking away dismissively. “You know, aside from not sleeping, the jumpiness, the constant, overwhelming, crushing fear that something terrible is about to happen.”

“It’s called hypervigilance,” Allison whispered. “It’s the persistent feeling of being under threat.”

“But it’s not just a feeling,” Stiles countered, keeping his voice quiet and even. “It’s… it’s like a panic attack. You know, like I can’t even breathe.”

“Like you’re drowning?” Allison offered.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed.

“So if you're drowning and you're trying to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment, what if you choose to not open your mouth? To not let the water in?” she asked.

“You do anyway,” Stiles told her. “It's a reflex.”

Allison brushed a loose strand of her raven-black hair behind her ear and thought for a moment before asking, “But if you hold off until that reflex kicks in, you have more time, right?”

Stiles thought about it for a second. “Not much time.”

“But more time to fight your way to the surface?” Allison proposed, lifting her brow slightly.

Stiles shrugged. “I guess.”

“More time to be rescued,” Allison added.

“More time to be in agonizing pain,” Stiles corrected. “I mean, did you forget about the part where you feel like your head's exploding?”

“If it's about survival, isn't a little agony worth it?” Allison asked.

“But what if it just gets worse?” Stiles countered. “What if it's agony now and then and it's just hell later on? And what if help isn’t coming? Or, if help does come, what if they’re too late?”

Allison looked at him, her dark eyes unsteady as she promised, “Help will always come. And if they’re too late, then you died fighting.”

Stiles bowed his head and thought for a moment.

“What else is going on in that head of yours?” Allison asked.

“I’m scared,” Stiles confessed. “If Derek’s on board the _Alpha_ … What if we can’t save him?”

“We’re going to save him,” Allison assured him, her voice firm and confident.

Another person stepped forward and snatched the sealed papers from Stiles’ pocket.

Stiles spun around and Peter reared back.

“These Letters of the Marque are meant to go to me, are they not?” Peter asked, unfolding them and looking down at the scrawl of ink at the bottom of the page. His brow furrowed as he stared at it. “There’s a signature.”

“Yes, they are signed by Lord Argent,” Stiles announced.

Allison flinched beside him, looking up at Stiles with wide eyes.

Scott seemed to notice too, stepping across the deck to stand beside Peter and look at the signed papers.

“Gerard Argent,” Peter said bitterly.

“Derek was working for Argent?” Scott said, stunned.

“Not of his own free will,” Peter replied, defending his nephew. “But that doesn’t deny the fact that Argent wants the compass. And there’s only one reason why he would want the compass; he wants to find the chest.”

“And if he finds the chest…” Scott muttered.

“If he finds the chest, he’ll rule the seas,” Peter finished.

He lowered the papers and glared at Stiles.

“Lower the sails and pick up the speed,” Peter ordered without shifting his gaze away from Stiles.

Scott and Allison nodded, picking up their heels and racing to their duties.

Peter stepped forward, waving the papers before Stiles’ face.

“How did you really come about these Letters?” the man asked.

“Persuasion,” Stiles answered.

“Friendly?” Peter inquired with a sly smirk.

“Decidedly not,” Stiles replied.

Peter raised his brow, narrowing his clear blue eyes on Stiles as he said, “Don’t you think it’s peculiar that Derek strikes a deal for these Letters and holds up his end of the bargain with honour, but you’re the one standing here with them?”

Stiles was taken aback, taking a moment to realise that what Peter had said was true.

“A full pardon,” Peter muttered. “A commission as a privateer on behalf of England…” Peter stuffed the papers into the pocket of his coat and snarled, “As if I could be bought so easily, not for that low of a price. A life like that is a fate worse than death.”

Peter turned and took a step back across the deck.

“Peter,” Stiles called.

The man turned.

Stiles held out his hand expectantly and insisted, “The Letters. Give them back.”

A coy smirk played across the man’s lips as he stepped back to Stiles’ side and said, “Persuade me.”

“You do know that Derek has taught me how to handle a sword,” Stiles threatened, his glare focused on the man. “Then again, I don’t need a sword to make you feel pain.”

Peter was not fazed by the boy’s threat as he repeated, “I said, _persuade me_.”

Peter grinned, awaiting Stiles’ response.

For a moment, Stiles contemplated punching the man, but as cathartic as that would be, it wouldn’t change Peter’s stance.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, shoved past Peter and stormed across the deck to Scott’s side.

“I hate this,” Stiles muttered, helping Scott fasten the ropes in place. “I don’t trust him.”

“None of us do,” Scott replied. “And if we somehow got through this alive it’ll be a miracle.”

Stiles took a step back, opening the worn leather case that held the compass and watching the needle spin endlessly. It twitched and wavered, never settling on a direction.

Stiles slammed the lid shut and exhaled heavily, his eyes drifting towards the horizon again.

 

 

Argent stood before the large map of the world that had been painted onto the wall of his cabin, admiring the fine brushwork that had painted the details of landmasses, ships, waves and the ornate compass in the bottom right corner, giving them detail and depth.

“There is something peaceful about knowing the shape of the world, the size of the globe and where your place is, don’t you agree, Governor Stilinski?” Argent mused, turning around to greet the man that the guards escorted into his office.

Governor Stilinski held up his shackled and calmly said, “I assure you, there is no need for these.”

“I would hope not, but your actions as of late suggest that you are not a man of your word,” Argent replied, his voice cold and accusing. “I brought you here because I thought you would be interested in knowing the whereabouts of your son.”

“Stiles,” John gasped. “You have news of him?”

“An informant told me that he was most recently in Tortuga and in the presence of some lesser people. He left the port in the company of Peter Hale and his crew of fugitives who evade justice.”

 Governor Stilinski winced, that was not the news he wanted to hear.

“But what might surprise you even more is that among that crew was the previous owner of this sword,” Argent mused, drawing Tate’s ceremonial sword from its sheath and holding it before his face, admiring how the forged steel caught the light and the fine details of the sword complimented its grace. “But there was no sight of the man who made it.”

John flinched as the man swung it about effortlessly and shoved it back into the sheath.

“Our ships have been dispatched to hunt,” Argent announced. “And justice will be brought upon those godless heathens whether it be by the noose, cannon fire, or by cutlass. And justice will be brought upon all who sail under that flag, even your son.”

There was a beat of silence before Argent added, “Unless you can convince me and the royal fleet that your son has been taken captive and his safety eclipses all other concerns.”

“What do you want from me?” Governor Stilinski asked, defeated.

“No more than you have already supplied. You simply need to lend your authority as governor and the respect you command in London, in service to the crown.”

“In service to you,” Governor Stilinski corrected.

“To England and the world we will make,” Lord Argent reiterated. “Shall I remove those shackles? I suspect they are, in fact, not necessary.”

Governor Stilinski exhaled heavily and held his hands out before himself.

“Do what you can for my son and I will do what you ask,” John agreed, feeling defeated.

Lord argent nodded to a guard who stood behind John.

The guard stepped forward with the key and unfastened the shackles that chaffed the man’s wrists.

They rattled and clanked as they fell from the man’s arms.

Governor Stilinski rubbed at his tender wrists.

Lord argent stepped forward and held his hand out before him.

John sighed and reached forward, Argent snatching his hand in a vice grip as he shook it.

“You see, Governor?” Argent snarled. “Every man has a price he will gladly accept for goods he never thought he’d sell.”


	10. X

The deck of the _Alpha_ was lashed by sea spray as the crew moved about slowly. Most of them were gathered around a small table beneath the stairs, watching on as their crewmates played a game.

They rattled and shook cups of dice before slamming them down on the tabletop.

The girl with the twisted face, Jennifer, wagered, “Ten years.”

“I’ll match your ten years,” Ethan – one of the twins – replied.

His brother, Aiden, nodded and added, “Agreed.”

Derek watched from afar as they tilted their cups and peered at the dice beneath before quickly covering them again.

“Three sixes,” Ethan said without hesitation.

“Four threes,” Aiden countered.

“Four fives,” Jennifer bargained.

“Liar,” Ethan howled.

The three lifted their cups and revealed their dice. Only three fives sat on the table.

Ethan roared with laughter at his victory and Jennifer’s shoulders sank with defeat. Her dismay only lasted a minute before she demanded, “Again.”

They collected their dice, shook the cups and slammed them down on the table.

Cora stepped up to her brother’s side and asked, “Do you want to know how it’s played?”

“I think I get it,” Derek muttered, watching the three of them place their bets and peer at their dice. “They have to guess how many of a certain number is on the table. You can raise the number of dice on that number or raise the number on the dice. But what are they wagering?”

“The only thing we have left: years of servitude,” Cora answered.

Derek nodded, falling into thought for a moment.

“Any member of the crew can be challenged?” Derek asked.

“Yes,” Cora confirmed, her brow creasing with confusion as she looked at her brother. “Anyone.”

“I challenge Deucalion,” Derek said boldly.

The crew froze, eyes wide with fear as they turned their stunned expressions to the young man.

“Derek,” Cora gasped. “No.”

She was silenced by the sound of heavy boots making their way down the stairs from the higher level of the deck.

Deucalion stopped at the foot of the stairs, his grey eyes focused on Derek and a wicked grin playing on his lips as he said, “Challenge accepted.”

The twins and Jennifer cleared the table and stepped back as Deucalion and Derek took their seats at the table. Ennis handed the captain his dice and a cup and Aiden pushed a set towards Derek. They shook the cups and slammed them down on the table.

“I wager everything I own,” Derek bargained.

Deucalion shook his head. “I only bet for what’s dearest to a man’s heart. Otherwise there’s no way to tell whether you’re bluffing. What a man is willing to risk, or not to risk, is the measure of his soul.”

“Fine,” Derek agreed. “I wager a hundred years of servitude.”

“No,” Cora gasped.

“Against your freedom?” Deucalion asked.

“Against my sister’s freedom,” Derek corrected.

Deucalion glanced over at Cora thoughtfully, his blind gaze rolling over her before returning to Derek as he said, “Agreed.”

They tilted their cups and glanced down at the dice.

Below Derek’s cup sat a dice that had fallen on a three and four that had fallen on the number six.

“Two threes,” Derek wagered.

“You’re a desperate man,” Deucalion mused. “What is the cause of such desperation? Surely it can only be a woman. Three threes.”

“A woman need not be the cause of desperation if you choose the right one, or not one at all,” Derek countered. “Four threes.”

Deucalion flinched as if what Derek had said struck a nerve. It took him a moment but his composure returned. “I remember now. Peter said you are one who hopes to get married.”

“But no woman has sway over me,” Derek confirmed.

“No, but a man does,” Deucalion replied. “It doesn’t matter though; your fate is to be married to this ship.”

“I chose my own fate,” Derek said, his voice low and threatening.

“Then it wouldn’t be fate, now, would it?” Deucalion inquired before adding, “Five threes.”

“Five sixes,” Derek countered without missing a beat.

“Liar,” Deucalion howled.

Derek’s composure was unwavering as he lifted his cup to reveal the four sixes that had sat beneath it.

Deucalion raised his cup, revealing the three threes, one four, and the final six that completed Derek’s bid of five sixes.

The gathered crowd let out shocked gasps and muttered words of amazement.

“Well done, Master Hale,” Deucalion complimented. He turned and looked at Cora. “You are free to go.”

Deucalion rose from his seat.

“Another game,” Derek called.

Deucalion turned on him, smiling like a father who was condescending his child as he said, “You can’t beat the devil twice, son.”

Derek returned the man’s gaze with a sly smirk as he said, “Then why are you walking away?”

Deucalion eyed the young man and sat down again. “Your stakes?”

“I wager my soul and an eternity of servitude,” Derek bet.

“Against?” Deucalion asked.

“Against this.” Derek pulled the piece of cloth, rolling it out across the table so that Deucalion could see the drawing. “What was it you said about that which is dearest to a man’s heart? I wager my soul against this.”

“How do you know about the key?” Deucalion asked.

“That’s not part of the game, now, is it?” Derek replied coyly.

Deucalion hesitated.

“You can still walk away,” Derek told him, a hint of smugness in his voice.

Deucalion scowled. He reached beneath the rough cotton of his shirt and pulled out the key. The faded gold was work to green and black as it hung from a worn piece of grey cord. He let it hang free of his shirt.

Derek smiled.

The lifted their cups, shook them and slammed them down on the table top.

A third cup hit the table.

They turned and looked at the newcomer: Cora.

“What are you doing?” Deucalion asked.

“I’m in,” Cora replied. “I match Derek’s wager: an eternity in service to you.”

“No,” Derek hissed.

Cora ignored him and Deucalion nodded.

They tilted their cups and checked the dice.

Cora looked down at her dice: three fives and two threes.

“I bid two threes,” Cora said.

“Don’t do this,” Derek pleaded.

“The die has been cast, Derek,” Cora said calmly. She turned and looked at Deucalion. “It’s your bid, captain.”

“Four threes,” Deucalion announced.

Derek let out a sigh and glanced down at his dice – two fives, two threes and a four. He reluctantly bid, “Five threes.”

“Six threes,” Cora countered.

“Seven fives,” Deucalion said calmly.

“Eight fives,” Derek bluffed.

A wicked grin lifted Deucalion’s cheeks as he said, “Welcome to the crew, lad.”

Before Deucalion could call Derek out on his lie, Cora interjected, “Twelve fives.”

Deucalion turned on her, his cloudy eyes raging like a storm.

Cora met his gaze and said, “Call me a liar or up the bid.”

“And be called a liar myself?” Deucalion sneered. He reached across the table and snatched Cora’s cup, revealing her dice. “Cora Hale, you are a liar and you will spend an eternity of service on this ship. Derek Hale, you are free to go ashore… the next time we make port.”

The crew roared with laughter as Deucalion rose from his seat and walked away.

Derek turned on his sister, livid. “Why did you do that?!”

“I couldn’t let you lose,” Cora whimpered.

“It was never about winning or losing,” Derek growled.

Cora’s eyes glittered with realisation as s muttered, “The key…”

 

 

The decks were empty, the crew members cast about on the sea-soaked decks or below in the galleys, either asleep or walking bath and forth across the wet desks on guard duty.

The moon had not yet risen, lighting the horizon with a silvery white glow. The storm clouds had dissipated and opened up to the sky above, revealing the onyx black pool that sparkled with stars; the perfect reflection of the glittering sea beneath it.

It was still dark and the deck of the _Alpha_ was lit by the orange glow of oil lamps, the light sparkling on the gathering droplets of water that pooled on the wooden boards.

Jennifer was on the main deck, her twisted face lit by the orange glow of the lights.

Cora stepped out of the shadows and made her way over to Jennifer’s side.

“Captain says I’m to relieve you,” Cora told her.

Jennifer looked at her, squinting sceptically.

“Captain. Says,” Cora said firmly.

The young woman nodded and, taking the words as a warning, she turned and left.

Cora waited until she had disappeared below deck before nodding to Derek.

Derek broke his cover and made his way over to the captain’s cabin. He gently pushed the door open, careful not to make a sound and praying that the old, rusty hinges would not alert Deucalion to his presence. He slipped into the cabin unnoticed, melting into the shadows. The captain’s bunk was empty; Deucalion sat at his grand piano which had been bolted to the floor at the far end of the room.

Derek crept closer and knelt at the foot of the stool before the piano. He reached forward, using a small piece of reed he had plucked from the ship’s adornments to fish the rough piece of cord from around Deucalion’s neck.

He reached forward with his knife, gently sawing through the cord and removing the key. He fished the piece of cloth with the drawing of the key out of his pocket and tied the cord around it.

His mission completed, he retreated from the cabin and stepped out onto the main deck.

Cora passed her brother his scabbard and jacket in a bundle.

Derek quickly dressed, fastening the belt around his firm hips and pocketing the key.

Cora pulled a small black-handled knife from her belt, an ornate triskelion engraved in the handle; their mother’s knife.

“Take this, too,” Cora insisted. “It was always meant for you and both our mother and Laura would have wanted you to have it.”

“You hold onto it,” Derek replied, gently pushing the knife back towards her. “I want you to have it so I know you have a way of protecting yourself if we get divided.”

Cora nodded and instructed, “Get yourself to land and stay there.”

“You have to come with me,” Derek insisted.

“I’m bound to this ship,” Cora said weakly, defeated.

“I’m not leaving you behind, okay? Not again,” Derek said softly. He leant forward and pressed a tender kiss to his sister’s forehead.

A glistening tear streamed down her cheek, her voice hoarse as she whispered, “You have to. I must stay but that is a fate I do not wish for you.”

Derek bowed his head, glancing up at his sister with eyes that sparkled with pain and guilt.

Cora reached forward, gently cupping her brother’s cheek as she smiled weakly and said, “Go, Derek.”

“They’ll know you helped him,” Derek muttered.

“What more can they do to me?” Cora asked.

Derek glanced down at the knife his sister still held out for him. He reached forward and took it from her hand, holding it up before her as he said, “I will take this with a promise. I promise I will find a way to sever Deucalion’s hold on you. I will not rest until this blade pierces his heart… I promise. I will not abandon you. Not again.”

Cora’s eyes filled with glistening tears. She gently gnawed at her lip and fought back her tears.

Derek leant forward again and pressed another kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment as if wishing he could hold onto her forever.

He slowly stepped back, his eyes lingering on his sister as he climbed into the longboat and made his way over to a rope pulley, lowering the boat into the water.

Cora glanced over the railing, looking down at Derek as the boat settled on the water. The waves rocked the boat, pushing Derek on his way and leaving nothing more than the black sea and the rolling whitecaps of broken waves.


	11. XI

Derek sat in the captain’s quarters of a small fishing boat, a blanket draped around his shoulders and a warm mug of tea in his hands. His body was still shuddering from the cold of night as he tried to fight for warmth.

The crew – a small gathering of five men and the captain – stood around him, eyeing him suspiciously.

“It’s a strange thing,” the captain remarked. “To come upon a longboat so far out into open waters.”

“Just put as many leagues behind us as you can, as fast as you can,” Derek pleaded.

“What are you running from?” one of the crewman asked.

Derek didn’t answer. His eyes drifted across the cabin towards a white dress suit made of a thick fabric that had a detailed silver vine-like pattern sewn into it. The collar of the jacket, tabs of his shirt collar and the rounded knot of the accompanying silk white tie were all bedazzled with heavy silver beads and glistening crystals.

Derek knew that suit; it was Stiles’ wedding outfit.

Derek rose to his feet, stumbling slightly as he made his way over to the jacket. He picked it up, his heart skipping a beat as he asked, “Where did you get this?”

“Funny that,” the quieter of the crew said. “Some lad traded it for some old rags and a trip to Tortuga.”

“Tortuga?” Derek muttered, smiling to himself as he ran his fingers over the soft fabric and remembered how handsome Stiles had looked when he wore it.

“Aye, it’s a port that often brings us good fortune,” another crewmate chipped in.

“The man who sold it to you, where is he now?” Derek asked.

“He left us when we made port,” the captain answered. “I hope he’s faring well. He was a good young man.”

“Yes,” Derek mused. “A very good man.”

One of the crewmen who had left earlier came bursting through the doors.

“Captain. A ship has been spotted,” the man said frantically.

“Colours?” the captain asked.

“She’s not flying any, sir,” the crewmate replied.

Derek froze, his blood running cold in his veins.

The captain sneered, “Pirates.”

“Or worse,” Derek uttered under his breath.

 

 

Deucalion’s’ blind eyes glared at the piece of cloth in his hand. He balled his fist around it, feeling the fabric ripple and crumple in his grasp.

“Ennis,” Deucalion called, his hoarse voice surprisingly calm.

“Yes, sir,” the first mate replied, stepping up to the captain’s side.

“Hale’s reprieve has ended,” Deucalion announced. “Bring the girl forward.”

Ennis nodded and stepped away for a moment. He returned, shoving Cora towards the railing.

She stumbled, her shackles dragging at her hands and feet as she dropped to her knees.

“Your brother was fortunate enough to have found that ship,” Deucalion said, not turning to look at her. “Yet, he was not so fortunate as to find land.”

“Please,” Cora whimpered. “Derek shouldn’t be punished because of Peter. It’s my uncle you want-“

Deucalion turned on her, his fierce gaze silencing her and he asked, “What makes you believe it is your brother who is being punished here?”

“No,” Cora gasped.

“Lift her to her feet,” Deucalion ordered.

Ennis obeyed.

Cora stumbled about, flailing slightly as she tried to break free of Ennis’ hold.

But Ennis’ grip was too strong.

“You will watch this,” Deucalion growled. He turned and nodded to Kali.

Kali cracked her whip, driving the crewmen to work as they began to spin a reed-covered wheel. The metal gears let out a series of heavy, rhythmic clunks as a large pillar rose from within the ship’s hull.

Deucalion turned his unseeing eyes to the fishing boat in the distance as he began to quote, “Let no joyful voice be heard. Let no man look up at the sky in hope. Let this day be cursed, by he who ready to wake the Leviathan.”

The crew let go of the wheel, the spokes spinning wildly as the pillar dropped and a resonating boom shook the ship and the ocean waters.

Hot tears pricked Cora’s eyes, her lips quivering as she whispered, “No.”

 

 

Derek followed the captain onto the higher deck of this fishing boat.

“Captain, may I borrow your spy glass?” Derek asked, his eyes focused on the horizon.

“Of course,” the man replied, passing it to Derek before returning to ordering the crew about and helping them put the sails to the wind in hopes of escaping the oncoming pirate attack.

Derek lifted the spy glass and looked over to the ship that drew towards them.

“The _Alpha_ ,” Derek gasped, his voice unheard by anyone else.

The ship lurched.

“What happened?” the captain called to the men.

“We must have kit a reef,” one of them reported.

“Free the rudder. Pull hard to port, then to starboard and back again until she’s free,” the captain instructed.

“No!” Derek shouted. “Get away from the railings.”

His orders fell short as a large tentacle-like limb burst from the ocean, whipped the air and collected one of the crewman.

The man’s cried were silenced as he hit the water, spraying ship as more tentacles began to rise around them.

“Holy mother of God,” the captain gasped.

“Abandon ship!” Derek howled.

The crew ran towards the longboats on the far side of the ship.

A large tentacle crashed down, sweeping the longboats aside and shattering them into splintered wood. The wooden panels of the hull groaned as the heavy tentacle bore down on it, snapping the ship in half.

The crew scrambled about, two men sliding into the water while others held onto the masts and the ropes, climbing their way up the broken ship to retrieve axes, spears and swords. They screamed with insane bravado and charged at the tentacles, lodging the blades into the extended limbs and cheering or laughing maniacally as the tentacle recoiled and shook.

“No,” Derek cried out, his voice silenced by the chaotic noise of the shattering wood, sloshing water and screaming sailors.

It went silent.

The tentacles retreated.

The crew began to laugh and cheer.

“It’s gone?” the captain muttered. “We did it.”

“No,” Derek gasped, clambering backwards and grabbing a hold of the ropes that hung from the main mast. “You just made it mad.”

“What?” the man asked.

The tentacles burst from the water again, lashing out and shattering the ship, grabbing crewmen and tearing them in two or hurling men into the water and leaving them to drown.

One tentacle reached out, grabbing the mast.

Derek frantically climbed, his body moving by instinct as he grabbed the wooden rods and hurled his way up the way he would climb a tree.

The mast shook and crackled, the pillar splintering and tilting.

Derek lifted himself onto the sail’s rod and sprinted towards the end. He held his breath and dove into the water.

Th surface broke around him, the waves closing over as the water engulfed his body and dragged him beneath the surface.

He slowly blinked his eyes open, the glistening water blurred slightly. He blinked, his vision adjusting to the darkness as he saw what dwelled beneath the surface: the large bulbous body of what looked like an over-sized, mutated squid. A kraken.

Its tentacles were coiled around the ruins of the ship, bloody seeping from the bodies of the sailors that were cast aside and other mangled corpses shoved into its mouths. The large beak peeled back to reveal rows upon rows of jagged teeth, tainted and filled with rot. Its glossy black eyes gazed into oblivion, unseeing.

Derek’s turned and began to swim away, unnoticed. He reached up, grasping the thick reeds that covered the hull of the _Alpha_. He began to climb, his weight of his wet clothes dragging at his body as he grabbed the lattice of vines like a ladder and fitted his hands into the notches and crevices in the hull of the ship. He pulled himself up to the railing, peering over the edge to see Deucalion and his men step across the main deck to where the two surviving crewmen of the fishing boat were lowered onto their knees with their heads bowed as the dreaded captain and his merciless escort stood before them.

“He’s not here,” Ennis said regretfully. “He must have been claimed by the sea.”

“I am the sea,” Deucalion growled. He turned on his heels and glared at Cora. “You need time alone to contemplate what you have done… Put her in the brig.”

Ethan and Aiden dragged her back towards their ship as Deucalion turned and marched towards the captain’s quarters.

“What of the survivors, sir?” Ennis asked, looking back at the crewman.

Deucalion paused, his voice firm as he said, “There are no survivors.”

Ennis and Kali drew their weapons, grinning cynically as they slashed the men open. They quickly turned, sheathing their swords as their bodies hit the deck with a solid thud. They picked up the pace of their steps and joined their captain.

“The chest is not safe,” Deucalion mused. “Ennis, chart a course to Isla Cruces. Get me there before anyone steps ashore or there will be hell to pay.”

“Who are we meant to beat ashore, sir?” Ennis asked.

“Who sent the thieving charlatan onto my ship?” Deucalion tested him. “Who told him of the key?”

“Peter Hale,” Kali uttered.

Derek swallowed hard. He lowered himself down the hull, waiting until the crew tossed the dismembered corpses overboard, the sound of crashing water providing him with the cover he needed to creep into the shadows of the ship and stow away in the hull.


	12. XII

Peter sat on the staircase that lead to the higher deck, his bright blue eyes focused on the young man who stood by Scott, talking like old friends. He lifted a bottle to his lips, feeling the alcohol burn his mouth and his throat as he gulped back the liquid.

Scott said something that made Stiles smile before stepping aside to continue his duties and left Stiles alone by the main mast.

Peter exhaled heavily and groaned as he rose to his feet. He sauntered across the deck and leant against the solid oak pillar of the mast, leaning in close to eye up Stiles as he said, “Stiles, are you well? Everything shipshape and Bristol fashion?”

Stiles held his breath, blinking rapidly as the bitter stench of the alcohol on his breath stung the young man’s eyes.

“My tremendous intuitive sense of humans…” He paused for a moment and corrected himself, “Of men - - women still astound and confuse me - - tells me that you are troubled.”

Stiles sighed. He snatched the bottle out of Peter’s hand and gulped back the liquor while the man watched on in surprise. He swallowed hard, wincing as he paused for a moment and then drew breath and muttered, “I thought I’d be married by now. I was so ready to be married.”

“I like marriage,” Peter mused. “It’s like a game. You wager on who’s going to fall out of love first.”

Stiles sneered at him, shoving the bottle against his chest as he turned and walked away.

Peter turned and pursued him.

“You know, I am the captain of this ship,” Peter called after him. “I could perform a marriage right here, right on this deck, right now.”

“No, thank you,” Stiles repeated, his face twisted in disgust.

“Why not?” Peter asked, cornering Stiles. He leant in closer and purred, “Admit it: we are so much alike, you and I.”

“Except for any sense of decency and honour or a moral centre… or personal hygiene,” Stiles hissed. “And you seem to have forgotten that I am to marry your nephew.”

“Trifles,” Peter said dismissively. “You will come over to my side, given time.”

“You seem quite certain of yourself,” Stiles replied.

“One word: curiosity,” Peter whispered. “You long for freedom, to do what you want because you want it. You want to act on selfish impulse. You want to see what it’s like. Someday… you won’t be able to resist.”

“Why does your compass not work?” Stiles asked.

“It works just fine,” Peter replied, slightly off-guard.

“Then why do you need me to find this chest?”

Peter froze.

“You and I are alike,” Stiles agreed. “And there will come a time when you have the chance to show it. There will come a time when you will have to do the right thing.”

Peter stepped back, strutting across the deck and back towards the stairs as he said, “I love those moment. I love to wave at them as they pass by.”

Stiles ignored him, following him and insisting, “You will have a chance to do something brave and in that moment you will discover something.”

Peter stopped, turning to look at the young man. He raised his brow quizzically.

“You’re a good man,” Stiles said.

Peter scoffed. He chuckled and replied, “All evidence points to the contrary.”

“I have faith in you,” Stiles insisted, taking a step closer. “Do you know why?”

“Do tell,” Peter said with a smirk.

Stiles returned the coy smile, stepping forward until Peter was pinned in place. His rosy pink lips quivered with his warm breath as he whispered, “One word: curiosity… You’re going to want it. A chance to be admired and gain the rewards that follow. You won’t be able to resist. You’re going to want to know what it feels like.” Stiles leant closer, his breath dancing across Peter’s lips teasingly as he purred, “…what it _tastes_ like.”

“I want to know what it tastes like,” Peter admitted.

“And since you’re a good man, I know you would never put me in a position to compromise my honour,” Stiles said with a coy smile, stepping back and walking away.

Isaac hurried down the staircase and over to Peter, slightly out of breath as he announced, “We’re coming up on land, sir.”

Peter nodded. He glanced down at his hand, tightening his fist and feeling the bandages tighten around his hand.

He knew it was still there.

He swallowed hard and muttered, “I want my jar.”

 

 

The little island was a strip of greed amidst the wide pool of sapphire blue sea, the empty strip of land among the empty space of uncharted waters. It had been inhabited, evidence of what used to be a church and a mill sitting in rubble and ruins on the highest bluff.

They anchored the _Lunar Eclipse_ by the outer reef and rowed ashore in the longboats.

Peter clutched the jar of dirt to his chest, his hands unsteady and his eyes wide with fear and darting about the open waters. Once ashore, he set the jar of dirt on the seat in the boat and shrugged off his jacket. He cast it aside in the longboat and picked up two shovels, trudging through the ankle-deep water that lapped at the worn leather of his boots and making his way ashore.

“Guard the boat,” he called over his shoulder to Erica and Boyd. “Mind the tide.”

Stiles climbed out of the second longboat, compass in hand, and waded ashore. He paused for a moment, watching the needle spin before settling in a direction. He followed it, his boots sinking into the sand with every step.

Tate and Scott climbed out of the boat and began to follow Stiles. Peter halted his footsteps and walked alongside Scott.

“Keep an eye on Tate,” he instructed, his voice a quiet hush. “If he’s worked out why we’re here this could go pear-shaped in a second.”

“You think he’s planning something?” Scott whispered, taking the shovels from Peter.

“I know he is, I just don’t know what it is yet,” Peter admitted.

Peter picked up the pace, catching up to Stiles.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be here,” Tate muttered under his breath.

“There’s not,” Stiles replied.

“You know this place?” Tate asked, looking at the boy in shock.

“Stiles,” Stiles muttered. “Isla Cruces. The Church came to the island and was said to have brought it salvation. But it was short lived because, very quickly, disease and death followed. They say the priest had to bury the bodies of the people, every last one of them, one after the other until it drove him mad and he hanged himself.”

“Better to be mad with the rest of the world than to be sane alone,” Tate muttered.

Stiles looked at him, his eyes glittering amber in the light as he looked at the man with worry.

The moment passed.

Stiles stepped down onto the soft sand of the far beach on the other side of the island.

The needle spun around.

Stiles halted, turned and walked in the direction of the need.

It stopped and spun back in the other direction.

Stiles paced back and forth until it drove him mad. He hurled the compass across the beach and sat down.

“I give up!” Stiles howled. “It’s not working; it’s just spinning us in circles.”

The compass rolled down the sand and stopped at Peter’s feet. He watched as the needle corrected itself and pointed to Stiles.

“Yes it does,” Peter said, his eyes glittering with understanding as he hurried over to Stiles’ side. “You’re on it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Stiles replied, slightly confused and offended.

“You’re sitting on it,” Peter repeated. “Move.”

Stiles’ brow creased with confusion but he got up nonetheless and stepped aside. He watched as Peter drew an X in the sand with the toe of his boot and nodded at Scott and Tate.

The two men stepped forward and began to dig.

 

 

The silhouette of the _Alpha_ broke the horizon, the haunting ship gliding across the ocean and coming around the point of the island. The anchor dropped to the seabed.

Deucalion emerged from his cabin, making his way up onto the higher deck. He drew out his spyglass and looked upon the island, spotting the anchored ship, the longboats that had rowed ashore, and the two people that guarded them. Rage brewed in him, his knuckles white as his grip tightened on the spyglass.

“They’re here,” Deucalion growled. “And I cannot step foot on land again for near of a decade.”

“Then trust us to act in your stead,” Kali pleaded.

Deucalion’s unseeing eyes turned on her. “I trust you to know what awaits you should you fail.”

“Yes, sir,” Kali replied.

“Then go,” Deucalion instructed. “And send them all to the Locker.”

 

 

The four of them stood around the hole in the sand, Scott and Tate shovelling the pale sand. They had just about given up with Scott’s shovel struct something with a loud thud.

They froze, taking a moment to determine whether that had really happened or whether they had imagined it in their heat-driven crazy state.

Scott and Tate tossed the shovels aside and began to dig into the damp sand with their hands, brushing it aside and lifting the ancient chest out of the hole. They set it down on the beach and climbed out of their hole.

Stiles knelt before the chest, pressing his ear to the cast iron chest that had darkened with age and wear. From within he could hear the slow, steady thumping of a beating heart.

“It’s real,” Stiles gasped.

“You were telling the truth?” Tate whispered, staring at Peter in shock.

“I do that a lot and yet people are still surprised,” Peter said, slightly offended.

“And with good reason,” a familiar voice shouted.

Stiles turned, his eyes wide as he stared at the drenched figure that trudged up the beach. A heavy sigh of relief shook him, his lips quivering and tears filled his eyes.

“Derek.”

He sprung to his feet and sprinted down the beach, leaping into Derek’s arms.

Derek held him close, cradling Stiles’ head into the curve of his neck and pressing a tender kiss to his temple.

“You’re okay,” Stiles muttered, sobbing with relief as he pulled back just enough to see Derek’s face. “You’re okay.”

Derek smiles sweetly and gently stroked Stiles’ mole-speckled cheeks as he whispered. “I’m okay. I’m so glad you’re alright.”

Peter looked about the open ocean, his eyes wide with fear and confusion as he looked back at his nephew and asked, “How did you get here?”

“Sea turtles,” Derek teased. “Strapped a pair of them to my feet.”

Peter chuckled. “Not easy, is it?”

“But I do owe you thanks, Peter,” Derek called as he and Stiles slowly made their way over to the others. “After you tricked me onto that ship to square your debt with Deucalion-”

Stiles turned on Peter, livid with rage as he howled, “You did what?”

Derek held Stiles closer, holding him back from Peter as he continued, “I found Cora. She told me you knew she was part of his crew. You knew she was dead.”

Peter flinched, his face twisted with pain and guilt.

“She’s not dead,” Peter muttered as if he were trying to reassure himself. “She’s not…”

“She’s damned to an eternity on that ship because of you,” Derek howled. “You left my sister there alone because you didn’t have what it takes to face up and pay your own debts!”

Derek let go of Stiles and made his way over to the chest. He knelt before it and drew out the ornate key and the triskelion-engraved dagger.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked, panicked.

“I’m going to kill Deucalion and set my sister free,” Derek announced.

There was a metallic ring and jolt of pain as Peter drew his scabbard and pressed the sharp tip into the skin of Derek’s throat, just enough to break the skin and draw a droplet of glistening red blood.

Derek glared at the man.

“I can’t let you do that, Derek,” Peter said firmly. “If you kill Deucalion, then who will call his beast off the hunt? Now, the key, if you’d please.”

Peter held his other hand out expectantly.

Derek knocked the sword aside with the blade of his dagger, rolling side and leaping o his feet. He drew his sword and parried Peter’s attack, knocking the blade aside and holding Peter at the point of his sword.

Scott and Stiles drew their swords defensively, not sure how to break the tension or divide the men if they were to start fighting.

“Unlike you, I’m a man of my word,” Derek growled. “I promised I’d set Cora free and I intend to keep that promise whether you’re here to see it or not.”

There was another metallic ring as Tate drew his sword, facing Derek.

“I can’t let you do that either,” Tate muttered. “Sorry.”

“I knew you’d warm up to me eventually,” Peter said with a triumphant smile.

Tate turned, pointing his sword at Peter. His glare was fierce and unwavering as he said, “Lord Argent desires what’s in that chest. If I deliver it to him, I will get my life back. I will get my daughter back.”

“You think you’ll find redemption?” Peter asked. He smirked and shook his head. “You’re past redemption.”

The three of them lunged forward, their swords clashing with ringing metal and locking together.

“Derek, you can’t let him get the chest,” Peter hissed. “You have to trust me.”

“I don’t have to do anything you say,” Derek growled.

“Then believe me when I say you can trust him less than you trust me,” Peter rephrased, his voice a weak plea.

Derek glanced out the corner of his eye, looking at Henry Tate for the first time in a long time.

“You look terrible,” Derek remarked.

“Granted,” Henry muttered. “But you’re still naïve if you think he’s going to use that chest for anything more than his own selfish gain.”

“Hello, Pot,” Peter sneered at Tate. “I’m Kettle.”

They pulled back and lunged again.

Peter ducked out of the way, slamming his elbow into Derek’s face and knocking him to the ground. It bought him enough time to look at Scott and Stiles.

“Guard the chest,” Peter ordered before giving chase to Tate and sprinting across the beach with clashing metal and Derek hot on his heels.

“This is barbaric,” Stiles called after them.

They continued fighting, having not heard him.

“This is not how grown men settle their - - okay, fine! Let’s all just haul out our swords and start banging away at each other in some pathetic display of bravado!” Stiles howled with acidic sarcasm. “That’ll solve everything.”

They disappeared into the rich greenery of the island.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and turned to Scott.

“You’re not going to fight me, are you?” he asked.

Scott shook his head.

“Are you tired of their nonstop idiocy too?” Stiles muttered.

Scott shook his head again.

Stiles looked up at the ruins of the church on the high bluff.

“Do you think there’s a piece of wood up there with rust nails on it?” Stiles mused. “Because if so, I’d love to wrap it in barbed wire and beat them to death with it right now.”

Two figures burst through the foliage, stumbling as they sprinted to Scott’s side.

“It’s here,” Erica gasped. “He’s here.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked. “Who’s here?”

“The ship of the damned and the cursed captain,” Boyd panted.

Scott swallowed hard and muttered the dreaded name, “Deucalion.”


	13. XIII

Metal crashed against metal as Peter, Derek and Henry thrust and parried each other’s attacks with skill, speed and precision. Sparks flew about as their steel swords rang through the dense forest.

Derek spun around, dug the toe of his boot into the loose earth and kicked the dirt into Peter’s face.

Peter flinched and Derek took advantage of his dropped defences, leaping forwards and unleashing a flurry of attacks.

Peter blocked most of them and dodged others, the metal of their blades flashing and sparking as they collided. He blocked one of the boy’s attacks, ducking under him and slamming his boot into the small of Derek’s back.

Derek collapsed to the ground with a painful grunt, his body hitting the rough brick wall of the collapsed church. He growled and lifted himself back up to his feet.

“You cheated,” Peter panted.

“I learnt from you,” Derek snarled.

Peter spied the ornate key that hung from a cord around his neck.

He reached forward and sliced through the string.

Derek scrambled for the key but Peter was too fast. He snatched up the key and sprinted into the ruins, disappearing among the dark shadows.

Tate was hot on his heels.

Peter grabbed a coil of rope. Peter spun around and swung his arm forward, the rough rope coiling around Tate’s blade. He twisted his wrist and pulled it out of the man’s grasp. He tossed it across the room, leaving the man unarmed.

Peter smugly took a curt bow before truing around and bounding out the window.

Tate lunged across the room and grabbed his sabre, running back through the ruins of the church and into the open field.

He spied Derek, back on his feet and chasing Peter towards the mill on the lower hill.

The two of them quickly caught up to the pirate, cornering him against the vine-covered walls of the log house.

With a violent slash, Derek disarmed Peter.

“Hale,” Tate growled, addressing Derek. “Excuse me while I kill the man who ruined my life.”

“Be my guest,” Derek said without protest.

“Just a moment, former Commodore,” Peter said calmly. “Let’s examine that claim, shall we? Am I really the one who ruined your life? Who was the man who, at the moment you had a notorious pirate safely in custody and due to hang at the gallows, convinced you to let said pirate go? Who, when your daughter was engaged to a reputable man and soon to walk down the aisle with you by her side, saw fit to profess his love for that reputable young man and resulted in the wedding being called off?”

Peter shot a dirty glare at Derek.

“I was nothing more than an almost-innocent bystander to the aforementioned events,” Peter claimed. “So whose fault is it really that you ended up a rum-soaked deckhand smelling of pig shit who takes orders from the man he hates the most, a pirate no less?”

“Enough!” Tate howled.

Peter shrugged and muttered, “Just saying.”

In the moment of distraction, Peter ducked between their legs and rolled aside, sliding down an embankment and disappearing into the shadows of the forest.

Tate’s voice was low and hoarse as he said, “You know, he’s right.”

Derek turned, blocking the blow that Tate brought down on him.

 

 

Stiles and Erica took the lead, swords drawn as they sprinted through the forest. They swung the swords and slashed through curtains of vines and thick brambles to clear the path ahead for Scott and Body to follow, the heavy chest in their hands.

There was a loud thump as splinters of wood rained over Stiles.

He turned his eyes wide as he looked at the barnacle-encrusted axe that was wedged in the grains of the thick tree trunk by Stiles.

From the dense forage emerged a large, burly man whose pale flesh was covered in barnacles and coral, forming what looked like plated armour. A cluster of barbs stuck out through the skin of his cheek like a sea urchin. His face was twisted into a vicious snarl, his knuckly hands balled into fists as he trudged towards them.

Behind him was a young woman with olive flesh, her dark hair pulled back by a row of shells and coral that had clustered on her head, forming a crown. Intertwined between the points were barnacles, colourful shells and gems, and strands of seaweed. Molluscs, clams and coral burst through the skin on her hands, forming talons and gauntlets. Her clothes were torn to rags, never repaired, only covered by layers. She held a whip in one hand and a sword in the other.

Stiles readied his blade.

“Stiles,” Scott warned. “You don’t stand a chance.”

“I don’t need to,” Stiles replied. “I just need to buy you some time. Go.”

“What?” Boyd muttered, stunned.

“Run,” Stiles ordered.

Boyd looked at Scott, confused.

Scott nodded and the two of them took off in the other direction, Erica hesitated for a moment but followed.

Stiles stood his ground, readying himself for a fight as he gave the others the time they needed to run.

The burly man stepped forward, grabbing the handle of the axe. His cold glare focused on Stiles as he adjusted his grip on the weapon and stepped towards the boy.

Stiles steadied his stance and held his breath.

The man let out a barbaric cry as he lunged at Stiles.

Stiles ducked to one side, dodging the axe and slamming his elbow into the fold of barnacles on the mans’ back.

He hit the ground with a solid thud and Stiles slammed his boot into the man’s ribs, kicking him back down the hill. His rolling body struck the woman, knocking her off the feet.

Stiles took the opportunity and ran.

He quickly caught up with the others.

The handle of the chest broke.

“Leave it!” Stiles ordered.

“Peter will kill us,” Scott shouted.

“Those two will kill us if we don’t get out of here, now go!”

 

 

Peter ran on.

Sweat dripped from his pores, stinging his eyes as he dove through curtains of vines.

He wove his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks and leapt over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet. He struggled to keep himself upright, trying not to stumble or trip as he sprinted away from the massacre and screams that sounded from the trees around him.

The sounds began to drown away as he ran further and further into the dense forest, following the comforting smell of sea salt towards the beach.

He glanced ahead, trying to focus his blurred vision on the wavering shadows in front of him.

He watched as four figures darted away from the fallen chest.

He checked his surroundings before sliding down the small embankment and dropping to his knees before the iron box. He slid the old key into the lock and turned it, listening to the gears turn. The moulded metal shaped like a crab was embedded into the ornate engravings of the chest, the legs twitching as the gears moved and the lock unlatched.

He pushed the lid open, looking down at the frail lace of what was once a wedding veil. Atop of it was a circlet made of intertwined strands of flowers: lily of the valley, snowdrops and sweat pea. Along the edges of the vail were thin white rose petals, now wilting or dead.

He froze for a moment, wondering what the owner of the veil would have looked like, dressed in her gown and veil, as beautiful as the flowers that adorned her.

Beneath the veil were other trinkets: old letters that were written on aged parchment – the ink washed away or faded and illegible – and a small silver pendant in the shape of a crab with a pearl in the centre of it. He froze for a moment, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him.

He was shaken back to reality by the cries in the bushes behind him.

He dug to the bottom of the chest and picked up the beating heart, shoving it into his pocket before shutting the chest and running towards the beach.

He burst out of the forest and onto the beach, sprinting across the rich white sands and towards the longboats they pulled ashore upon their arrival. He grabbed his jar of dirt and pulled it open, spooning handfuls out onto the small seat before burying the beating heart among the dirt. He covered it over and closed the jar.

He drew his sword and span around to face the approaching figures.

Erica, Boyd, and Scott were out the front of the group, doing their best to avoid the oncoming attacks and pursuing damned crewmen. Stiles followed up the read of their group, swinging his sword in a flurry of motions that fought off the crewmen.

Peter looked from the others to the boar and back again, groaning as he discarded any thoughts of self-preservation and leapt into battle.

Derek and Tate burst out from the forest.

Derek charged into battle, hurling the attacking men away from Stiles before joining him in battle.

Tate, however, ran straight for the longboat. He looked inside, noticing the leather-folded paters that peeked out of Peter’s jacket. He reached for them, unfolding the Letters of Marque before pocketing them. His eyes wondered to the pile of dirt that had been tossed onto the wooden beam before drifting to the jar.

Across the beach, Peter dodged the blows intended for him and spun around, his sword slashing open Jennifer’s throat and her body dropping to the beach in a lifeless heap. Nearby he saw Ennis standing with the chest in his hand and an axe in the other. He charged forward, slashing his sword at the large man’s hand and forcing him to drop the chest.

He quickly turned and blocked the blow from the axe.

Will ran forward, sliding past his uncle and Ennis and snatching the chest.

Peter noticed, quickly dealing with Ennis before chasing his nephew.

Derek ran back up the shore with it. His eyes were drawn to the key in the lock. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the ornate metal when he suddenly froze, a loud crack sounding through the air.

Derek dropped to the ground.

Stiles froze, eyes wide as he looked up at Peter, oar in his hand.

Peter looked back at him in mock surprise.

“We’re not getting out of this,” Tate muttered, drawing Stiles’ attention away from Peter. “Not with the chest.”

Tate grabbed the chest.

Peter flinched.

“Get in the boat,” Tate ordered.

“You’re mad,” Stiles shrieked.

“Let me do this one last thing. Let me prove I’m still a good man,” Tate pleaded. “Don’t wait for me.”

He adjusted his grip on the chest and sprinted into the forest, the crewmen taking chase.

“I say we respect his final wish,” Peter suggested, grabbing Derek’s arms and hauling him into the longboat.

“I agree,” Scott added, gently shoving Stiles towards one of the boats.

“No, I can’t leave him behind,” Stiles objected.

Peter grabbed the young man by his shoulders, spinning him around and glaring at him as he growled, “Stiles. We’re leaving. Now.”

“But they’ll kill him,” Stiles argued.

“Then he died for a good cause.”


	14. XIV

Derek slowly blinked his eyes open, his head aching as his vision cleared and he looked up at Stiles the way he had when the young man had fished him out of the ocean all those years ago.

Stiles looked down at him, his dark eyes glittering with concern.

“The chest…” Derek rasped. “What happened to the chest?”

“Tate took it,” Stiles told him. “To lure them away.”

“Tate, is he…?” Derek muttered.

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted. “We were forced to leave without him.”

“Best not to wallow in our grief,” Scott said, his heart aching despite his best efforts to hide it. “The bright side is you’re back and we made it off that island free and clear.”

“Cora,” Derek whimpered.

“We’ll help her,” Stiles promised. “I swear, we’ll find some way to find her and we’ll save her.”

Derek nodded and rose to his feet.

There was a loud crash of water as a ship burst from the water like a whale breaking the surface and splashing down on the waves.

The _Alpha_.

Derek swallowed hard, looking up at where Peter stood on the high deck, strangely unafraid.

“Did you come to negotiate?” Peter hollered at Deucalion.

Deucalion turned and nodded to Kali.

The cannon ports opened, revealing the cold iron cannon barrels that were aimed at the _Lunar Eclipse_.

Peter froze.

“Hard to starboard!” Stiles howled.

Lydia spun the wheel and the crew leapt into action, quickly pulling the ship about the _Alpha_ begun to fire upon them.

A cannonball tore through the captain’s cabin, shattering the windows and splintering wood. Another clipped the railing next to Stiles, knocking the boy back.

“Scott!” Lydia howled.

“The rope is caught,” he shouted back. “Get her up to speed and with the wind, I’ll fix it.”

Derek ran forward, bounding up the mast and hoisting himself onto the pole. He quickly unfastened the rope, letting it slide free and the thick canvas sails catch the wind.

Scott and Stiles caught the ropes, securing the lines before looking up to Lydia, hopefully.

“Come on, come on,” Lydia begged.

Stiles looked back through the hole that had been torn through the captain’s cabin, watching as the _Alpha_ drew back with every gust of wind.

“We’re losing them!” Stiles announced.

“We’re faster?” Derek said, astonished.

“Yes,” Scott replied. “With the wind in our sails we can outrun everything, even the infamous, fearsome _Alpha_.”

Derek ran up to Peter, hurling him back against the wall of the captain’s cabin and shouted, “My sister - - _your_ niece - - is on that ship! If you can outrun it, you can it on. Turn around and fight, you coward!”

“There’s no need to fight when you can negotiate,” Peter said. He shoved his nephew back, unfastened the lid on the jar and emptied the dirt onto the deck. He froze, looking down at the mess and noticing how the fine grains evened out like sand in an hourglass. His eyes grew wide with fear as he muttered, “Where’s the heart?”

A thundering boom shook the ship, the water quivering in its wake.

“What was that?” Stiles asked.

The ship groaned, shuddered and pulled to a stop.

“We must have hit a reef,” Lydia announced.

Stiles stepped over to the edge of the ship, peering into the deep water beneath them.

“I don’t see anything,” he announced.

Derek’s gut lurched. He spun around and howled, “Get away from the rail!”

Stiles sprung back.

Derek raced forward, pulling Stiles into his arms.

“What is it?” Stiles asked, his voice breaking with fear.

“The kraken,” Derek answered.

Peter looked down at his hand, unwinding the bandage to reveal the festering Black Spot that marred his palm.

“Arm yourselves!” Derek ordered. “Load guns, defend the masts, get the boathooks at the ready and use them to pry it off the ship. Don’t let it get a grip. It’ll attack on the starboard side, ready the cannons and wait for my signal.”

Everyone scurried about, loading cannonballs and gunpowder into the cannons and readying the ignition. Others loaded guns and strapped swords to their waists. A few who were brave enough to get close to the edge grabbed the boathooks and readied themselves to fight off the tentacles.

The water beneath them began to bubble and churn, swirling water pulling back from the approaching figure. The giant tentacles rose from the sea. The towering appendages casted shadows across the ship, salty water raining over the deck and the crew as they rose higher and higher.

“Hold,” Derek instructed.

“Derek,” Stiles muttered, his throat dry with fear as the tentacles reached higher and loomed over them.

“Hold,” Derek insisted.

“Derek,” Stiles called, stepping back and readying his rifle. His shoulders heaved with heavy breaths as he tried to compose himself.

“Hold,” Derek repeated.

“Derek!” Stiles shouted.

There was a beat of silence before Derek howled, “Fire!”

The cannons fired, tearing through the flesh of the tentacles.

The creature shrieked, it’s limbs thrashing and flailing before retreating into the water. The kraken writhed in pain, gripping the ship and tipping it.

Stiles stumbled backwards, losing his footing for a moment and sliding across the deck. He slammed into the thick railing with a cry of pain.

A tentacle crashed down next to him, shattering the longboats and hurling broken planks of wood at him.

Stiles flinched, shielding his face as the wooden planks hit him or tore open his clothes and his flesh.

Another tentacle struck the water with a crash, sending a wave of water crashing over them.

The ship rocked back upright and the creature disappeared.

“Stiles,” Scott called.

“I’m okay,” Stiles replied, slowly lifting himself back to his feet. He looked out at the vast expanse of gleaming blue water. In the distance, he saw a small longboat that carried one man: Peter.

Stiles snarled and hissed, “Coward.”

“It’ll be back soon,” Derek announced. “Abandon ship.”

“There’s no longboats,” Stiles remarked remorsefully, his gaze fixed on Peter’s drifting silhouette.

Derek thought for a moment before instructing the crew, “Get ready for battle.”

“And how do you suggest we take down the leviathan?” Lydia asked.

“Pull the grids,” Stiles ordered. “Haul all the gunpowder into a net and hoist it. We’ll drop it on the beast and it should detonate a blast big enough to kill it.”

Lydia nodded and the crew scrambled to do as instructed.

Derek picked up the rifle Stiles had dropped when the ship rolled. He tossed it to the young man, meeting his gaze for a moment to say, “Whatever you do, don’t miss.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and nodded.

“You get one shot, take it when you can,” Derek insisted.

“Just as soon as your clear of the blast,” Stiles agreed.

“We’re short-stocked on gunpowder,” Isaac called from the hull of the ship. “We’ve only got six barrels.”

“Then load the run too,” Stiles shouted back.

Isaac looked at Scott, slightly scared and awaiting confirmation.

Scott nodded and howled, “Load the rum!”

The water swelled as the beast raced back towards the _Lunar Eclipse_.

The boat lurched.

Derek grabbed Stiles’ arm, using the young man to stay upright while helping Stiles stay on his own two feet.

Everyone froze, looking down as they thought of the horrors that dwelled beneath their ship.

“Double time!” Scott shouted, tossing barrels of rum into the large woven net before pulling it shut.

Boyd leapt up onto the deck and hoisted it out of the cargo hold. Derek ran to his side to help.

Allison screamed as a tentacle tore through the cannon ports, piercing the hull of the ship like an icicle impaling the earth.

“All hands on deck,” Stiles bellowed. “Get out of there!”

Everyone scrambled up the ladder, stopping at the top of the hatch to grab the others’ hands and hurl them up onto the deck. Scott and Stiles reached back for Allison, grabbing her wrists and hoisting her up just in time to narrowly miss the tentacle that shattered the ladder and tore the lower deck apart.

Derek patted Boyd’s shoulder and said, “I’m going to lure its attention, hold the barrels steady.”

The young man nodded and watched as Derek climbed up the main mast, climbing through the rigging before leaping onto the dangling net. He grabbed a hold of the woven ropes and began to shout, “Come on! Come and get me!”

Tentacles crept forward, coiling around the masts like vines up a pillar. They flexed and tensed, ready to snap them.

The crew fired upon the tentacles, severing the flesh and hurting the beast enough that the limbs released their grip and retreated.

The beast reached for the netting, several tentacles coiling around the barrels.

“Stiles, now!” Derek called.

Stiles raised the barrel of his gun, taking aim. He steadied his breathing and tensed his finger on the trigger.

Derek went to leap out of the way but his foot caught in the net. He dropped, hanging from the hanging cargo.

“Shoot!” he shouted at stiles, drawing the triskelion-engraved dagger and sawing through the ropes that caught his foot. “Shoot!”

“Not until you’re free,” Stiles uttered under his breath.

“Stiles, shoot!”

Another tentacle crept across the deck. It coiled around Stiles’ boot, unnoticed. The suction cups locked onto the worn leather of his boots and pulled.

Stiles yelped, his grip on the gun faltering as he was dragged back towards the blown out windows of the captain’s cabin.

Allison leapt forward, slamming the axe in her hands down on the tentacle, severing it. The strand caught on his boot thrashed and flailed about. Stiles kicked it off and scrambled backwards. Allison raced forward, grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet before sprinting across the deck to help Lydia.

Stiles raised the barrel of his gun again, aiming for the cargo.

A hand gently pushed his rifle down.

Stiles turned, rage fuelling his body as he readied himself to fight off the newcomer with the butt of his gun.

He met the cold blue eyes that seemed all-too-familiar.

Peter nodded curtly, drew his pistol and without hesitation fired.

The bullet soared through the air, striking a bottle of rum and igniting it just as Derek’s rusty blade tore through the last rope and he fell away from the fireball that engulfed the barrels of black powder.

The tentacles were obliterated, others erupted into crackling flames that sizzled as it blistered and dissolved the creature’s flesh. Shredded limbs, chunks of flesh and blood splattering over the deck as the creature shrieked and pulled away from the _Lunar Eclipse_.

“Abandon ship!” Peter ordered.

“But, Peter… the _Eclipse_ ,” Scott muttered.

Peter shrugged, his voice full of sorrow as he said, “It’s just a ship.”

“We can make it to the island if we hurry,” Lydia announced.

“That’s a lot of open water,” Isaac said sceptically.

“We can make it if we leave now,” Lydia insisted. “It’ll be too busy taking down the _Eclipse_.”

She looked to Peter and the man nodded.

Scott exhaled heavily and said, “Abandon ship.”

Everyone looked at him, stunned.

“Abandon ship or abandon hope,” he said firmly, making his way over to the longboat that was secured to the side of the ship.

He climbed down, helping the others lower themselves, their weapons and whatever supplies they dared to carry: food, water and munitions.

Peter reloaded his pistol, standing by Stiles as they guarded the retreat.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet, we’re still not out of harm’s way,” Peter muttered.

“No, thank you for not leaving. Thank you for not proving me wrong,” Stiles reiterated. “I always knew you were a good man.”

“I’m not,” Peter argued.

“Maybe not, but you were curious enough to try it,” Stiles pointed out.

Peter turned to look at the young man, meeting his gaze.

Derek glanced up, peering through the gap in the railings to see Stiles step forward and bring his lips to Peter’s. His gut lurched, his heart aching with betrayal as he stared in shock.

Peter stumbled slightly, letting Stiles guide him back until he was pinned against the mast and out of Derek’s sight.

Stiles drew back slightly, his warm breath dancing across Peter’s lips. His dark eyes opened, lit by the golden glow of the setting sun and looking at the man with a vacant expression.

There was a quiet metallic click as something fastened around Peter’s wrist.

“It’s not after the ship nor the crew,” Stiles rasped. “It’s after you. And it won’t stop until it kills you.”

Stiles took a step back, looking at Peter with a void expression. His eyes didn’t have the slightest hint of remorse as he said, “Every pirate, when abandoned, is left with his possessions and a single shot… I’m not sorry.”

Peter smirked, leaning forward slightly to hiss, “Pirate.”

Stiles backed away, hurrying across the deck and sliding down the ladder into the crowded longboat.

“Go,” he tells them.

“Where’s Peter?” Scott asked, looking back up the ladder expectantly.

“He elected to stay behind and give us a chance,” Stiles lied. “Now, go.”

He bowed his head, glancing across the longboat briefly. He met Derek’s gaze, watching how the mess of anger, betrayal and sorrow swirled about in his glittering aventurine eyes. Stiles looked away, staring down at the shadows that dwelled beneath the surface of the ocean.

This was far from over.

 

 

Up on the deck, Peter trashed about in the cuffs, the chains rattling and clattering as he pulled at them. He grabbed nearby lantern, shattering the glass on the mast above him and carefully pouring the oil onto his wrist. He turned his hand about, spreading the lubrication before tossing aside the broken lantern and working his hand free of the restraint.

But it was too late.

He turned around and faced the shadows that were cast over his ship by the climbing wall of slimy appendages, some still intact while others were charred or severed.

The creature hoisted itself up on one side of the ship, its glossy black eyes looking at Peter.

He creature opened its beak and let out a deafening roar, saliva and debris of rotting bodies splattering across the deck and soaking Peter.

When the creature quietened, Peter raised a hand and wiped the slime from his face.

“’Stench of a thousand corpses’… Your breath doesn’t smell that bad,” Peter teased.

Peter stepped forward, standing directly in front of the creature and drawing his sword. He flashed his charismatic smile and said, “Hello, beastie,” before charging forward.


	15. XV

It was picturesque, the image drawn at the bottom of ever elaborate map: the leviathan shattering a ship, devouring those aboard and dragging the dead to the bottom of the sea.

Deucalion lowered his spyglass, his unseeing eyes knowing what laid before him. A devilish smile played across his lips as he sighed with relief and muttered, “Peter Hale… Your debt is settled.”

Deucalion turned and looked at Cora.

Her shoulders had fallen in defeat, her heart aching for the family she had lost.

“The captain goes down with his ship,” Kali sneered mockingly.

“Not even Peter Hale could outrun the devil,” Ennis added, his eyes focused on the bubbling water that settled to an even tide.

Deucalion paused, his mind twisted with suspicious as worried filled his stern features.

“Open the chest!” he barked. “Open the chest. I need to see it.”

Ennis stepped aside, retrieving the chest from where he had set it down in the captain’s quarters. He brought it forward.

Deucalion felt for the key, grasping the cold metal and turning it. He heard the gears rattle and clunk as they moved. The lid opened.

Silence.

There was no beating heart.

He reached inside, feeling the frail lace of the wedding veil that sat at the bottom of the chest.

“It’s not here,” Deucalion muttered.

His face twitched, a storm brewing behind his grey eyes as he was overcome by a primal, livid rage.

He spun around, glaring at the blank sea where the _Eclipse_ had sat.

He snarled, breathing heavily.

His rage overcame him as he bellowed, “Hale!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a super short chapter, but I'll post two chapters today, just give me a minute to get things sorted... :)


	16. XVI

The man sat at the large oak desk adorned with maps, documents, and various trinkets, his eyes focused on the papers spread before him as he dipped his quill into his pot of ink and scrawled signatures across the bottom of the parchment.

“Sir, the last of our ships have returned,” a lieutenant announced.

Lord Argent nodded.

“Any word of the chest?” the man asked.

“None, sir,” the lieutenant said apologetically. “But the ships did pick up a man set adrift by the look of it. He had these.”

The lieutenant stepped forward and set the Letters of the Marque before Argent on his desk.

Argent froze for a moment, his brow lifted in curiosity as he regarded the leather-bound papers. He set down his quill and picked them up and unfolded them, noticing the messy scribbles of a name that had been etched onto the paper.

Argent smirked.

“Henry Tate,” Argent addressed the man as he was escorted into the office by two armed guards.

“I took the liberty of filling in my name,” Tate announced as he stood before Lord Argent.

“If you intend to claim these then you must have something to trade. Have you the compass?” Argent asked.

“I have something better,” Tate said. He set the sand-dusted coin pouch down on the desk.

Argent regarded it for a moment, watching as the fabric moved with a rhythmic beat, palpitating on the desk with the dull heartbeat.

“The beating heart of Deucalion himself,” Tate muttered.

Argent smirked and reached forward, opening the pouch enough to look inside. He pulled the string shut again and muttered, “Grotesque but remarkable.”

“Have I won commission as a privateer or not?” Tate asked.

“Better,” Argent announced.

Argent rose from his seat and picked up the large presentation case from the shelves behind him. He stepped around his desk and set it down on the large oak table in the centre of the room, popping the locks and turning the case to face Tate. He lifted the lid and presented Tate with the ceremonial sword.

The man looked at it, reminiscing his past life and all the glory he had held.

Argent picked up the sword, turning the hilt towards Tate and offering the man the ceremonial sword.

Tate reached forward, taking it from the man and feeling how familiar the weight in his hand felt. He held the sword before his face as Argent continued, “You have full reinstatement of your former rank and status, all rights and privileges included, and I believe a promotion is due as well. Do you agree, _Admiral_ Tate?”

The man seemed flustered, overwhelmed and unbelievable grateful.

As a reply, he asked, “Orders, sir?”

“There would be no profit in killing Deucalion,” Argent muttered, regarding the palpitating bag that sat on his desk. “Why have a ship when you can have a fleet? Why have a fleet when you can have the _Alpha_?”

“Sir?” Tate muttered, confused.

Argent picked up the pouch, sliding it into the pocket of his jacket as he strutted across the room, pulled open the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony.

His eyes drifted out to the point beyond the bluffs where the nightmarish ship was anchored. Deucalion’s mutated crew were lined up by the railing of the ship and Deucalion standing by the wheel of the ship.

Argent met his cold gaze and Deucalion bowed his head in a curt but submissive nod.

“Whoever controls the heart of Deucalion, controls the sea,” Argent explained.

The oblivious artist stepped back, admiring the large map he had painted on the wall of the office, every corner filled in with the discovered continents and claimed islands.

“The map is finished, sir,” the artist announced.

Argent smirked. “Perfect.”


	17. XVII

The longboat drifted down the small river, guided by the flickering golden glow of the lights that lined the riverbanks.

Stiles’ eyes drifted to the trees, the swirling wood twisted into the figures of men, women and children, each holding candles and lanterns. Other trees and mangroves arched their path, the spindly roots reaching out for them like the hands of the damned reaching out of Hell.

The longboats pulled up before a thick Cypress tree. The crew made haste to wind the ropes around the jagged roots and fasten the boats in place.

One by one, they climbed up the small ladder made of broken branches and braided ropes.

Stiles watched as the others stepped forward, pushing aside a curtain of beads before making their way into the small cabin.

Stiles followed, stepping inside and taking a moment to take in his surroundings.

The small shack was full of a hoarded mess of jars – full of pickled ingredients, strange creatures and foreign spices – and the pelts of various animals. The centre of the room sat a large table with several board games and maps, the playing pieces tossed about haphazardly and mixed in with chunks of rocks and precious gems. There were other stools and tables pushed up against the walls, all covered in varying piles of books, parchments, and maps. Among the mess were a couple of scattered plates and cups.

At the far end of the room there was a small fleet of stairs that led into another room. The doorway was covered by a curtain that was draped over a doorway, blocking the view into the other room.

By the doorway sat a young woman dressed in the rags of what used to be an expensive dress. The once-white fabric had been tainted and muddied, stained brown but still showing patches of the original colour: shades of blue and white. The layers of fabric made it look like the crashing waves and white caps of the ocean. The thick fabric dress had been patched up with strips of fabric and decorated by scarves and jewels, making the frail lace of her corset and the billowing skirt seem more glamourous.

As she turned towards her visitors, the shifting light exposing the three jagged lines that marred her ebony flesh. The rippling pink scars ran across her throat, running from her jaw, across her throat and to the exposed collarbone on her other side.

She expression was solemn as she greeted her guests.

“I know why you’re here,” Braeden announced, rising from her seat and crossing the room. She collected a bunch of mugs and glasses, none matching the others. She set them down on the table and pulled the lid from the flask, pouring the golden liquor into each glass before handing them out to the crew.

“The hunter with the heart of gold,” she said, passing the glass to Allison. She turned to Scott and passed him one. “The hero with no hope.”

She picked up another two glasses, passing them to Lydia and Isaac, “The girl with the strength of a lionheart and the boy with the painful past.”

Next was Erica and Boyd: “The star-crossed lovers running in fear.”

She passed the next glass to Derek, “The broken boy with a burden to bear.”

Finally, Stiles: “The fortunate son with a heart for the sea.”

Stiles swallowed hard and took the glass from the woman.

“The misshapen crew of Peter Hale,” she said, regarding each of them.

Her eyes fell upon Derek again. “It’s a shame. I know you’re thinking that with the _Eclipse_ on your side you could have caught the devil and wrestled your sister’s soul free of his grasp.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek growled. “The _Eclipse_ is gone and its captain with it.”

“And, somehow the world seems darker without him,” Lydia muttered.

“He tricked us all, right until the end,” Scott said sorrowfully. “He was an honest man. He didn’t show it but he was. I guess that streak of honesty won him over in the end.”

Stiles flinched.

“To Peter Hale,” Lydia said, raising her glass.

“There’s never going to be a man like him,” Scott added, raising his mug.

“A man of good fortune,” Erica confirmed, raising her glass with the other crewmen.

“A good man,” Stiles muttered, lifting his glass.

They tipped back their glasses and gulped back the liquor, all except for Stiles.

The young man lowered his glass, staring down at the swirling amber liquid.

Derek seemed to be the only one to notice. He looked at the young man woefully and whispered, “Stiles, if there was anything we could do to bring him back…”

“Would you do it?” Braeden asked.

They looked at her confused.

“What would you, what would any of you, be willing to do?” she asked. “Would you sail to the ends of the earth and beyond to bring back Peter and his precious _Eclipse_?”

“Yes,” Scott answered.

“Yes,” Lydia said too.

Allison and the others nodded.

They looked at Stiles.

He swallowed hard and whispered, “Yes.”

Derek nodded, “Yes.”

Braeden seemed pleased, smiling triumphantly as she slowly stepped back towards the door at the far side of the cabin.

“Very well,” she said. “But if you are to brave what weird and haunted shoals at world’s end, then you will need a captain who knows those waters.”

They frowned in confusion.

The door opened, revealing a pair of dusty old leather boots. They hit the ground with a solid thud as the man rose to his feet. He turned and stepped down the small fleet of stairs. He reached out and picked a ripe green apple from the nearby bowl. He bit into the crunchy flesh, savouring the taste of the bitter fruit.

Allison gasped in surprise, her eyes wide with fear as she looked at the man. The whisper fell from her lips before she could stop it, “Dad.”

Chris smirked, turning to look at the crew as he said, “Now, tell me, what’s become of _my_ ship?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is the final chapter, but don't worry; there will be a part three to the series! The bad news? It might be a little while off.  
> If you want to know more about when it's coming or want to know about my other writing projects, check out my Tumblr: celestialvoid-fanfiction. I'll post updates and notices there when I start the final part of the series.
> 
> Thank you all for your ongoing love and support. :)

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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